


all these neon lights;

by maidenstar



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Con Artists, Crimes & Criminals, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maidenstar/pseuds/maidenstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only people who ever use the L&L Diner these days are down-and-outs and mob members, so Angie Martinelli sees her fair share of criminals. But there’s none quite like Peggy Carter and her little group of extraordinary con artists.</p><p>And Angie’s a girl with grand designs, she doesn’t want to be a waitress all her life – if Carter and her boys ever asked Angie in, she’d probably say ‘yes’ in a heartbeat.</p><p>  <span class="small">(or, the one where they’re all world-class grifters)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is born out of my shameless love of girl gang and criminal AUs, and in particular out of my love of a show called Hustle, which is a hella fun English show about grifters (or con artists). I truly hope I do the AU, and both Hustle and Agent Carter justice with this. 
> 
> As always, I really do thrive off your comments and constructive advice, it’s what makes me a better writer and inspires me to keep writing fic! So thanks in advance if you’re able to leave your thoughts at the bottom. 
> 
> And finally, if you’re interested, I made a “crime AU” playlist to inspire me as I wrote (and tbh listening to it kinda makes me feel like a badass!) If you’d like to listen (maybe while reading?) it can be found on [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/maidenstar/hustle/), and the tracklist is published on my [tumblr](http://angiemartinnelli.tumblr.com/post/114353782218/).

Edwin Jarvis has the look of a man about to give out bad news. But then, being Howard Stark’s personal messenger time and again has this effect. Too often he’d become the bearer of bad news to some girl once Howard had done one of his disappearing acts.

(That wasn’t an exaggeration, Howard had techniques for getting away. Many, many techniques.)

Honestly, he was worried he might be developing early-onset frown lines. He suppresses a shudder at the thought. He was far too young for that kind of fate.

The silver lining was probably that Jarvis had become rather adept at ducking a punch. Which is precisely what one Peggy Carter looks like she wants to do as she catches sight of him coming through the revolving door, completely without company.

To make things worse, the skies above the city had decided to unleash a deluge, dotting the tops of his shoes with dirty, unsightly rainwater. He gives his umbrella – what, like he _wasn’t_ going to have one at the ready? – a delicate shake in the corner of the room, before dropping it with a flourish; all in aid of killing a little bit of time.

Peggy quirks an eyebrow at him during his slow but inevitable approach towards their usual booth, situated in a poorly-lit back corner of the room.

“Tell me he left something in the car and has gone back for it.”

Sliding into his seat, Jarvis gives a bemused shake of his head. “You know I don’t like to lie, it’s impolite.”

Opposite him, Peggy clenches her jaw.

“One of his amorous pursuits?” she asks darkly, though she’s clearly already aware of the answer. Jarvis gives her a grim nod nonetheless. “Well when you see him, please let him know that I’d have thought he had more important things to worry about tonight.”

“I do have other things to do with my day than pass messages to and from Howard Stark you know.” His reply is rather snippier than he’d intended and he flashes an apologetic look across the booth. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but you know Mr. Stark, he always comes through.”

With a defeated grimace, Peggy shakes her head to herself, not bothering to call him up on his habit of calling people by their surnames, though it’s normally a much enjoyed source of humour for her.

“Well at least tell me he’s finished the devices we need.”

“Ah.” Jarvis bows his head, smile brightening considerably. “Now that I _can_ confirm.”

Peggy breathes out, exhaling a breath neither had realised she was holding.

“Well that’s something, at least. I’ll come by tomorrow for a rundown on them.”

Pursing his lips against a playful smile, Jarvis affects his most disproving tone. “You know, most people ask for an invitation.”

Peggy, however, is unperturbed. “ _Most_ people don’t have hundreds of thousands of dollars riding on a few useless scraps of metal.”

Spreading his palms, Jarvis silently concedes defeat, allowing a brief silence to pass between them.

“So, do I perhaps get to know anything about this job, or are you intending on keeping me in the dark?”

Both of Peggy’s eyebrows raise at this. “I’d assumed Howard had briefed you.”

“No, he’s been rather distracted these past few days,” he replies with a quiet, graceless snort.

Peggy’s eye flicker to the empty seat beside Jarvis and one corner of her mouth quirks upwards slightly at his tone.

When she doesn’t offer a response, Jarvis opens his mouth to speak again, but the words catch in his throat as he notices a figure approaching them, pen and notepad in hand.

Peggy, by contrast, barely blinks at the waitress as she walks jauntily towards their table.

“The target’s name is Alexander Westbridge,” Peggy begins, tearing absently at the corners of a dingy-looking paper napkin.

“The tech guy?”

Quickly, both Peggy and Jarvis glance up, to find the waitress – Angie – standing over them, her expression one of the surprise.

“He’s a pretty big fish, or so I’ve heard,” Angie adds thoughtfully.

“Yes, that’s what I was about to say,” Jarvis cuts in, narrowing his eyes pointedly at Peggy.

“We’ve had bigger stuck in our nets before,” she shrugs, smiling up at Angie and changing the subject. “Is it too late to order?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll sweet talk the chef into making some plates up for you,” Angie beams. “Your usual?”

“Yes, please. And some tea if you don’t mind.”

Angie unnecessarily scribbles down the order before turning her attention to Jarvis.

“And for you Mr. Fancy?” she teases. She’s used the nickname without fail since they’d met, though Jarvis is at a complete loss as to why. He and Peggy sound almost exactly the same and the most Angie ever calls her is “ _English_ ”.

Jarvis scans the menu unenthusiastically before placing an order and watching Angie trot off, a cheerful sway to her hips. In all honesty, they never came to the L&L for its food, but more for the fact that it was centrally located, stayed open late, and its clientele was morally sketchy at worst, and completely non-existent at best.

As soon as Angie is out of earshot Jarvis leans across the table, closer to Peggy.

“Shouldn’t you be more careful?” he hisses, voice strained.

Peggy is evidently amused at this sudden climb in his stress levels and Jarvis has to suppress an indignant comment as he scowls across the booth. As if dealing with Howard wasn’t punishment enough for the sins of a past life.

“I’ve already told you, we can trust her.” Peggy is insistent, still absently making ribbons out of the napkin between her fingers.

“And you know that how, exactly?”

“I’ve run the background check,” Peggy responds simply, as confident as ever. “Besides, she’s got more to lose by going to the police than she does by keeping quiet.”

He shoots her a disbelieving look. “You’ll understand if I’m sceptical.”

“Certainly. But I can assure you her family would _far_ from welcome a visit to their house from our good friends at the police department.”

Peggy had told him this before but hadn’t elucidated, which only left Jarvis to assume that Angie was far better acquainted criminals than he gave her credit for. And, in truth, they’d met at the diner to plan their jobs countless times by now, and she always turned a blind eye to the illegality of it all.

Though, if he’s honest, he’s never sure _why_ they meet here. It would make infinitely more sense to use one of their own properties. It’s not as though there aren’t enough of them.

Both he and Peggy are still locked in a whispered exchange when Angie returns with their drinks. Once she’s set them on the table, she pats Jarvis’s shoulder good naturedly and tells him to relax.

“I’m not a snitch. Besides, your ill-gotten gains are keeping me in a job,” she jokes as she heads off, calling over her shoulder, “I’m not the kind to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Suppressing a laugh, Peggy quirks an eyebrow at him in challenge. He elects to ignore her, stirring milk into his teacup.

After a significant pause, he asks, “so, tell me more about Alexander Westbridge.”

For a moment, he thinks Peggy is going to ignore him and make a joke at his expense but, to her credit, she resists.

“He runs a multi-million dollar research facility upstate. His team of scientists design and create just about any kind of tech you can think of. He fills a few government contracts, but that’s really just a cover for all the stuff that comes out his labs and only makes it as far as the black market.”

“I shall assume Mr. Westbridge has no real interest in who he sells to.”

Peggy takes a sip of her tea before nodding approvingly. “Precisely. The inventions – weapons really – often go exclusively to the highest bidder; be they terrorist, dictator, criminal, or something else entirely.”

He makes a noise of derision in the back of his throat. “And where is he getting the raw materials to make all this technology if he’s so unscrupulous about his customers?”

“From just about anywhere. Most of its incredibly unsustainably sourced, and some of it is all but stolen from the people who produce or mine it. Mr. Westbridge is also rather fond of half-finished ideas, buying them off people who can’t afford to build the designs for themselves.”

“I assume that’s where we come in?”

“Precisely. He often cheats people out of a fair price for these designs, but luckily for us if you have something he really wants, he’s willing to pay whatever it takes to get it.”

There’s a brief pause as Angie brings their food over and although she looks as though she intends to linger, a shout from the kitchen draws her away.

Tipping a small amount of pepper over his food, Jarvis resumes.

“We’re not actually going to sell him a real weapon though, are we?”

“Of course not. If Howard’s done his job correctly, that is.” Peggy leans forward and snags one of Jarvis’s fries, too quick for him to draw his plate away with an indignant cry. “Don’t be uncharitable,” Peggy chastises, but with no real admonishment in her tone.

“If you wanted fries, you should have ordered them.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For an inventor, Howard’s current mansion of choice is really remarkably easy to penetrate. The security system is of his own design and it’s very good, but it’s also rather easily circumvented with the right intel.

(Said intel is essentially the knowledge that Howard hadn’t ever wired the main bedroom into the system. He wasn’t above sneaking out of a window and waiting for a lady friend to let herself out the house on occasion.)

The master bedroom side of the building was easy to scale should anyone ever think to do so, and it would have caused Peggy no trouble, even in a pair of classy high heels. Fortunately for her Louboutins, however, she also possessed a spare key. Not that Howard had to know that.

She lets herself in without knocking, and finds Jarvis in the sizeable kitchen down the hall. He jumps rather dramatically when she greets him from the kitchen doorway.

Clutching at his chest as Peggy laughs, he cries out, “don’t you even _knock_?!” He quickly dabs primly at his shirt with a gingham tea towel, trying to mop up where he’d manage to slosh soapy water from the sink all over himself.

“You do know you have a dishwasher, don’t you?” Peggy asks evasively as Jarvis turns back to the pile of dishes.

“Miss Carter, I _am_ the dish washer in this residence.”

Peggy crosses the hall to hang her coat on the stand, calling back to Jarvis, “and where is Howard?”

“Still otherwise occupied as far as I can tell,” he replies distractedly, inspecting a dripping glass dish for errant stains.

“This one’s a late sleeper then?”

Still up to his elbows in dishwater Jarvis gives a delicate sniff. “It would appear so.”

Before he can stop her, Peggy turns on her heel, dashing up the stairs and winding through the corridors with practiced ease. She finds the door to Howard’s bedroom ever so slightly ajar and though she has no desire whatsoever to peep inside, she can just about detect two sets of breathing from within.

Ducking into a nearby guest room and rattling things about flamboyantly, she gives Howard and the woman a moment to wake up before calling out, “Howard? _Darling_? I’m home. I know it’s sooner than planned but Martha was an absolute nightmare and no amount of boutiques could have kept me in Milan a moment longer.”

The sudden frenzy of movement from the room is oddly satisfying and Peggy takes a perverse amount of pleasure in hearing an angry female voice cry out, “ _is that your wife_?!”

Even better is Howard’s almost palpable panic as he tries to reassure the lady that he is completely unmarried. The brief commotion that follows could just as easily as not have been the woman striking Howard on the cheek, for which Peggy has every sympathy. Single as he is, Howard still needed a lesson in common human decency from time to time.

And it’s a lesson that is being well delivered. Raised voices precede a clatter of heeled shoes on the hardwood floor, the door to the master bedroom bursts open and someone hurries out. They rush away, their footsteps echoing as they descend the main staircase.

A moment later a second, softer set of footsteps follows. Someone stands in the corridor in silence for a moment, before –

“Alright Peggy, where the hell are you?”

Still trying to hold in her laughter, Peggy emerges, ostentatiously covering her eyes with her hand and hoping her shoulders aren’t shaking too much.

“I’m decent, you can look you asshole,” Howard grumbles and Peggy, not entirely convinced he isn’t set on some kind of nude revenge, peeps between her fingers before dropping her hand back down to her side.

Decent is, perhaps, a matter of perspective given that Howard is clad only in a pair of fluffy slippers and a loosely-tied, rather lavish-looking claret robe which appears to be made from a fine cut of silk. His hair droops slightly flatter on one side of his head as he twins his crossed arms with a rather undignified scowl.

“She was a nice girl, we had a lovely night together,” he mumbles haughtily.

“Oh really? What was her name?” For all the levity in her voice as she challenges him, Peggy is increasingly finding herself rather sick of Howard’s amorous games.

She knows that she’s won when he opens and shuts his mouth twice without speaking. In the end, he opts to ask defensively, “what have I ever done to you, huh Peg?”

She raises a hand, about to check off a limitless list on her fingers when Howard cuts her off.

“Never mind, don’t answer that.” He sighs, dejected. “Go wait with Jarvis, I’ll be down in a second.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peggy and Jarvis are seated around the low kitchen table nursing cups of tea when Howard eventually appears, fully dressed and now perfectly presentable.

“I hear that your friend had to rush off,” Jarvis prompts innocently when Howard shuffles over to the coffee machine, pouring himself a generous serving from the pot. Suppressing a smile, Peggy wonders (as she often does) how Howard would get by without Jarvis.

Technically, Jarvis didn’t actually need to work for Howard anymore. The three of them were doing pretty well for themselves these days. Better than pretty well, in fact. Which is something that Jarvis should know better than anyone, given that he manages their numerous bank accounts on top of all his other household duties.

Peggy isn’t sure of the two men’s shared past, but when Jarvis had found out what she and Howard really did for a living, he had somehow remained unquestioningly loyal.

Of course, he’d panicked at first. A lot. The illegality of it all had thrown him and, to hear him tell it, he hardly slept for a week. The spice rack had also suffered immensely, apparently. According to Jarvis, despite it being top of his to-do list, it had gone completely without being cleaned and some of the jars had even been left with their labels facing inwards by the time he finally got to tidying it up again. _The scandal_.

When they’d realised just how shaken up he truly was by it all – his first thought being, as ever, what effect any criminal activity might have on his wife – they’d offered him the chance to quit.

(“ _We won’t think any the less of you. We just ask that you don’t report us_.”)

He’d refused, however, stating that he owed Howard a great deal and wasn’t about to bail on that debt any time soon. He’d also grown considerably less nervous when he’d heard how Peggy and Howard selected their targets.

“ _And besides_ ,” he’d asked at the time. “ _Where are you going to find him another butler with half as much as discretion_?”

The answer, of course, was that she wouldn’t find one anywhere. Not that she told Jarvis that. There was no use in getting sentimental.

Peggy knows that in spite of all his complaints, deep down, Jarvis is really rather fond of Howard and it’s a feeling she’s certain runs both ways. Not that an onlooker would guess that from the glare Howard sends the other man as he leans nonchalantly against a marble worktop.

Under his breath, Howard grumbles something about not even getting a phone number from the woman, but Peggy is unsympathetic.

“If you’d been at the diner last night, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”

Howard merely shrugs petulantly, his bottom lip jutted out slightly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alexander Westbridge has a penchant for expensive ties, if the one he’s currently wearing is anything to go by. He also has a bad back, evident from the awkward, stiff way he sits in his grand leather chair and leans heavily onto his elbows. His teeth are almost unnaturally white and bright, and his canines are especially pronounced, giving him the air of a suave, suit-wearing vampire.

Peggy supposes it’s an image he’s cultivated to intimidate those around him, but those kinds of crass tactics won’t work on her.

“I don’t usually buy from third parties Miss Cutler,” he tells her icily, turning one of Howard’s devices over between his long, pale fingers.

She forces a placating smile. “Mr. Virshilas is otherwise indisposed on a business trip, I’m his assistant.”

Howard had maintained that he could teach her enough about the fake devices and unworkable blueprints that she could form a passable cover as the inventor. But Peggy, as the team’s insider, had opted for a different persona. It gave her a bit leeway should Westbridge ask her something she wasn’t entirely sure about; she’d be able to buy herself some time and leaf through Howard’s notes, hidden between some official-looking (but otherwise completely fake) papers.

Plus, Westbridge, being more than a bit of a misogynist, would most likely have doubted her as a scientist, and the first trick of the job was to avoid unnecessarily arousing mistrust. Internet forums were often alight with debate over his comments about women being incapable in the world of STEM research. It set Peggy’s teeth on edge.

“This,” Westbridge continues with a slight shake of the metal in his hand, “should be impossible.”

“And yet,” Peggy smiles pointedly, “here we are.”

“You’ll understand that I can’t take this from you without testing it.”

Peggy gives a gracious nod. “Of course, though _you’ll_ understand that I’d rather remove myself to a safe distance before you do so.”

This elicits a little laugh from Westbridge as he flicks a switch on the intercom, and there’s an almost instantaneous knock on the door. A man with a slight limp enters when called, and Westbridge instructs him to take the device down for testing.

When they’re alone again, Westbridge returns his gaze to her, his eyeline rather too low for her liking.

“We have a special underground facility specifically for things such as this,” he explains, eventually registering Peggy’s concerned look. She’s not without cause to worry. The device is supposed to be a new form of explosive, though Howard has assured her that the science is completely unfounded. It will work twice, perhaps three times at best before melting down. By which point they – and all online traces of “Mr. Virshilas” that Howard had set up a week earlier – will be long gone.

They sit in uncomfortable silence for what seems like an eternity before the desk phone rings. Westbridge answers it quickly, having a wordless conversation filled with only _mmm_ s and _ahhh_ s. He looks surprised, however, and when he drops the receiver into the cradle, he’s silent and pensive for a moment.

Just as Peggy begins mentally planning her escape, he reaches under his desk, pulling out a brown briefcase and popping it open.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Miss Cutler,” he murmurs swivelling the case so she can see the cash within.

It’s a cliché, but all that crisp, freshly printed paper really does smell quite divine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You guys look happy, you celebrating?”

Their laughter dies away as all three of them glance up at Angie.

“Something like that,” Howard replies cautiously, ghost of a smile still lingering on his face. It shifts to something a little more flirtatious as he holds Angie’s gaze for a moment, and Peggy does her best to suppress an eye-roll.

The diner is empty save for the four of them, so Angie takes the opportunity to join them, sliding herself into the booth beside Peggy, crowding her until she eventually scoots over and makes space.

“So, do I assume that you took Alexander Westbridge for all he’s worth?” Angie asks, giving Peggy’s shoulder a good-natured shove.

Howard’s eyes widen and Angie snorts quietly when she notices.

“Oh _please_ , not you as well.”

Howard ignores her, turning to Peggy with his eyes still comically wide. “You’re always telling me I need to be more discreet!” he exclaims with a wild gesture across the booth at Angie.

“Yes, because you’re always bragging to a different woman every night.”

“ _Yeah_. Whereas I’m like Peggy’s steady…” Angie pauses, grasping around for the right word while Peggy’s stomach gives a strange twist she’d prefer to ignore, “…confidante,” Angie decides eventually.

Howard’s eyes dart between the two women as though he’s sat at a tennis match, and he flashes a look at Peggy which seems to ask ‘are you sure about this?’

But it is Angie who answers him.

“Please, I’m just as likely to turn you in as I am my own cousin.”

“What does your cousin do?” Jarvis asks curiously, their heads all turning in unison as they hear the swish of the revolving doors, heralding new customers.

Angie rises and gives a disinterested shrug. “He’s an estate agent, he sells houses,” she replies as she goes to leave.

“Well then why…”

“He keeps a spare key to all the properties once they’re sold. Then at night he robs them.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kind comments so far, if you have a moment it'd seriously mean the world to know what you think so far and what you'd like to see more/less of!
> 
> For Ch2, we get to know Angie a little better - I truly hope I did our beloved waitress justice!!

Angie Martinelli relies upon underestimation. It’s a slightly pessimistic way to live, especially for someone who’s an optimist at heart.

But hey, it’s a big bad world out there, and she figures a girl has to make her breaks however she can.

Take the L&L for example. Is it what she wants? Hell no. Long hours, hard work, and pretty much no thanks for any of it. But the bills aren’t gonna pay themselves while they sit on the coffee table at home as she waits for an audition call-back. So she’ll just have to keep up with the waitressing until something better comes along.

But whatever, the point is: people tend to underestimate Angie. It’s because she’s small and bubbly and pretty. (What? There’s no shame in it, she owns a mirror, she knows what she looks like.)

Besides, she wouldn’t have it any other way. She figures it gives her a nice headstart in whatever race they’re all running in.

The men at the diner who slap her on the ass think because she smiles at them all pretty and bright like, that she won’t go right on round the back and get the cook to spit in their food.

Her brothers and her cousins think because she’s their sweet little sister – both in age and in stature – that they can talk “business” round the table of an evening and she won’t clue in to what they’re doing. But she does. She knows all the family secrets that way, just by being ‘sweet little Angelica’. She knows who’s double-crossing who and which of them are cheating on their wives. And she knows who the other women are, too.

You never know just when that kind of stuff might come in handy.

See, Angie’s all about that wily self-preservation. Has been ever since she was fourteen and she kissed another girl for the first time, and when (without thinking) she got a little too handsy, Sonia De Marco had jumped back like someone had lit a fourth of July sparkler up between them. Then she made Angie promise not to tell, and she got this ugly look on her face and said that if Angie ever breathed a word to anyone, she’d tell them that Angie had forced her.

It wasn’t true, of course, but that didn’t stop it hurting. Angry tears had pricked at the back of her eyes all evening, threatening to spill over while she ate her soup at the dinner table and tried to pretend that nothing was wrong.

After that, she learnt pretty quickly how to work out who she could trust. And who she couldn’t.

Which is how Angie knew, right away, that she rather liked Peggy Carter.

Peggy had swooped into the diner one day, throwing a disgusted glare at one of the regulars who always called Angie ‘sweetheart’ in that sneering, condescending tone, before settling herself right at the back of the room. She had designer shoes and a soft leather bag, and she’d said ‘please’ when she ordered and left a generous tip when she paid, and she hadn’t really fit in at the L&L at all.

But that didn’t stop Peggy from becoming a regular, and it didn’t stop the two of them from talking. And even when Peggy started appearing with a tall, broad-shouldered man in a smart suit, it didn’t stop Angie from flirting a little bit. Just enough that she could pass it off as being friendly if Peggy ever asked.

And maybe Angie should learn to practice what she preaches because when she found out what Peggy, Mr. Fancy, and That Guy With The Moustache did for a living, she was more than a little shocked. She made sure to cover it up with nonchalance until she was safely home for the night, but she really hadn’t had Peggy down as the criminal type. Not like the rest of the degenerates that frequented the L&L.

Just like her family, the customers at the diner underestimated Angie. They didn’t bother lowering their voices when they spoke and whenever it was clear she’d heard something private, they always looked at her as if to say _you wouldn’t dare darlin’_.

But she would. Oh, Angie most certainly _would_ dare if the occasion ever called for it.

But whether she did dare or she didn’t, Angie had enough experience to know that Peggy Carter was different. When Peggy made it clear what they did, it was almost out of respect. Which was a new item on the menu when it came to Angie’s place of work. It felt almost as though Peggy was saying, _you deserve to know who you’re serving_. 

Which was a sweet sentiment to be sure, but really Peggy, Mr. Fancy and The One With The Moustache were some of the most harmless people Angie knew. It made a refreshing change really.

And the thing was, Angie should be _scared_. She knew so much about so many people, the police could have her for about a hundred different charges of perverting the course of justice. Or something. But mostly, she was just fascinated. Especially by the jobs Peggy did.

Grifting, they called it, but Angie figures they’re just using a fancy-ass word for con tricks because that’s exactly what it all sounds like to her. And as she found out more and more about how Peggy earns her money, Angie slowly worked out why they call them con _artists_. Because the jobs – Peggy calls them “long cons” – are pretty much a form of art. The three of them pick a target and they go to every expense to make up this huge, elaborate cover story. And then, once it’s all perfect – _bam_! Peggy goes in like a Tony-winning actress and tricks some guy out of thousands of dollars.

It kind of makes Angie want to swoon.

Which is exactly what she would do, if she didn’t have rude customers calling her over and… _shit, was he actually?_...

Yep, one guy was genuinely clicking his fingers at her like she was a damn chihuahua.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” she gives a mock click of her heels as she approaches the man’s table, flourishing her pen and notepad.

“Don’t get cute sweetheart,” the man tells her without looking up, “stick to what you’re good at and make me some coffee. And bring over a couple of menus while you’re at it.”

“Coming right up,” Angie grits out between her teeth, casting a glance back at the man and his associates. Sitting round the table, they could all have been clones; middle-aged, balding men with bulging stomachs tucked into their grimy polo shirts.

It’s almost tempting, really, to ‘accidentally’ spill coffee over their tasteless, faded suit jackets but she resists, instead taking her time setting out the mugs and pouring the coffee. The men were regulars, and of all the things she ever heard at the diner, their stories were always some of the worst. They were neck deep in just about every dodgy deal Angie could think of, including being unscrupulous loan sharks.

“I’m telling you, the guy can’t pay. He’s got nothing,” one of the men is telling his boss, not bothering to look at Angie as she passes round menus.

He’s met with a stony look and a growled, “there’s always something to take if he can’t pay.”

“You want me and some guys to pay him a visit tomorrow night?” another man asks, face sickeningly hopeful.

“Yeah,” their boss snatches a menu out of Angie’s hand. “You know the drill.”

When she takes their orders a few minutes later, the boss’s fat fingers close painfully around Angie’s wrist. She stiffens, preparing to yank her arm away and, if necessary, to call out, which would have Patricio (one of the only decent guys ever in the building) out from behind his oven with a baseball bat in the blink of an eye. However, the man lets go as quickly as he took hold, but he sends Angie that look. The one that says he thinks he has Angie all sussed out, the one that tries to tell her she should run, run away and do her work without a word.

See, people really do underestimate Angie Martinelli, just thinking that _she’d never dare._

Because oh yes, yes she would.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angie is restless the whole time she waits for Peggy to pay her next visit to the diner, not even really sure what it is she’s going to ask Peggy for.

So she’s perhaps more surprised than is really reasonable when Peggy turns up in the early evening a few days later. She normally appears at the end of Angie’s shift, right in the dead of night. And it’s even more of a shock when she selects a seat at the counter, rather than at her booth – an honest to god first for Peggy Carter.

“Tea, English?” Angie asks, but she’s already unwrapping the tea bag before she gets an answer. This wins a grin from Peggy who fishes her cell phone out of her bag as she sits down, scrolling through it for a moment. Eventually, she slides the phone away, quietly watching Angie work with her chin propped on her hand.

As it often is, the diner’s empty – save for Patricio – so Angie asks, “done any neat jobs recently?”

She’s interested in the answer – she always is – but Angie asks it mainly to distract from the way she nervously taps her foot on the linoleum floor as she slides the cup and saucer towards Peggy.

Peggy flashes her a grateful look as she accepts the tea. “No, not especially,” she answers with a slight sigh. “It’s been a rather quiet week.”

“Well, least you can afford it,” Angie jokes half-heartedly, but Peggy’s brow furrows.

“Is everything alright Angie?” she asks and Angie thinks that someone should really tell Peggy about the joys of preamble. But still, it makes her heart skip because no one save for her mother _ever_ seems to notice when something’s amiss and really, when was the last time anyone had been concerned enough to ask?

It’s with that that everything about the nameless criminal spills forth. If she’s shocked at the rapidity of Angie’s account, or the intensity of Angie’s trust, Peggy doesn’t show it. She just blows on her tea and listens closely. At one point, she asks Angie to describe the men, asking enough questions that by the end of it, she knows exactly who Angie’s talking about.

The thing is, Angie had worked out pretty quickly that Peggy and her friends didn’t target just anyone. It didn’t make it any better – or any less illegal – but from what Angie had seen, they only ever made marks out of the Alexander Westbridges of the world. The rogues and criminals, and the dodgy dealers who profited off other people and didn’t give a damn about who they hurt. They found out who had dirty money, and they took it right out their pockets.

And if quite a lot of that money appeared in the bank accounts of charitable organisations a little while later, well, Peggy Carter pretended she didn’t know anything about it. (It wasn’t only the likes of Monsieur Vuitton who reaped the rewards of Peggy’s hard work.)

So when she eventually stops speaking, Angie doesn’t have to sheepishly say that this is some kind of suggestion, or maybe even a request. Peggy just knows.

She drains her teacup and stands, a soft hand darting across the counter and squeezing Angie’s shoulder for a moment.

“I’ll see what we can find on him, Angie,” she tells her kindly, with a comforting smile.

After perhaps a beat too long, during which time neither speaks a word but rather just stares at the other, Peggy steps away, telling Angie that she has to go.

“I’ll be in contact soon,” she promises, making her way across the diner. As she’s about to leave, however, Angie’s struck by a sudden question.

“Hang on!” Angie calls after her, and Peggy freezes with her hand on the revolving door. Slowly, she turns around. “If you weren’t in the middle of planning a job, how come you’re here?”

Shrugging, Peggy flashes her a significant look. “Personal call?” she prompts with a suggestive quirk of her eyebrow.

With that she’s gone, the door swinging smoothly in her wake.

For a moment, Angie stares dumbly at the empty space where Peggy had stood a moment before.

Did she?

Did she just imply what Angie thinks she just implied?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peggy has never been more sure than she is now that Howard is acutely aware of infuriating he can be. He lounges back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk, watching her as he swills his scotch round in his glass.

“I just want to know where you got the tip Peg. Because it sounds to me as though _Carlo Guerriero_ isn’t someone you found of your accord.”

He knows. Of course he bloody knows, but he’s making her suffer. Probably for pretending to be his wife last week and ruining his chances of a second date with a pretty girl.

Peggy wants to tell the two of them that she really did not just go to all the trouble it took to find a name for this guy, only for them to both veto the job.

“You know, technically, we do have a right to know where you got this tip from,” Jarvis points out gently from across the room.

Peggy allows herself a dramatic, indulgent sigh.

“Angie put me onto it,” she concedes quietly, and Howard – the wanker – promptly proceeds to punch the air. Twice.

“I _knew_ it. The waitress from the diner! Didn’t I tell you Jarvis?”

“You did sir,” Jarvis murmurs obligingly. “You did.” 

Sat in _her_ armchair, drinking _her_ scotch, Howard launches into a full-on, seated victory dance at Peggy’s expense.

“Oh do collect yourself Howard, your moustache is far too jaunty for this time of night,” Peggy snaps, but both of the men know her well enough to know not to take offence.

“So what, the waitress is giving you tips now?” Howard asks merrily, finally settling back into his chair.

“ _Angie_ ,” Peggy corrects haughtily. “And not exactly, I think he just happened to test her patience a little too far.”

Before they can change the subject, Peggy quickly tells them both what she knows, which is mostly that Carlo Guerriero has his fingers in a lot of rotten pies. He takes money for just about anything you can take money for, though he seemed to like drugs and hits the best. He also liked to loan money at unspeakably high rates, and took great joy in shattering kneecaps when borrowers didn’t pay him back in time.

“I dunno,” Howard said cautiously, “I gotta be honest, I don’t feel great about it.”

“And should we really be taking tips from the person who knows about every job we’ve done in the last four months?” Jarvis asks fairly.

“I honestly don’t think that stops this being a perfectly good job,” Peggy protests. “Unless, of course, you’d both prefer to focus on one of the many other marks we have lined up? Here,” she mimes passing over an imaginary piece of paper, “do take a look through our list of other options.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you Peg,” Howard tells her gravely. “Besides, it’s not really our kind of gig is it? I just don’t see what we can really do to this guy.”

Grinning, Peggy pours herself another generous glass of scotch.

“Would it help if I told you that I already have a plan?”

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

The L&L after closing time is, somehow, more depressing than when it’s open. Although the lights are all much dimmer than usual, this hardly improves the ambiance.

Angie had gone to great pains to shoo Patricio away as they’d closed up, telling him to get home early for a change.

“You can owe me one,” she’d winked, as she locked the revolving doors behind him before dashing to the back entrance and letting Peggy, Howard, and Jarvis in from the alley behind the diner.

“Next time,” Jarvis says, curling his lip as he wipes something thick and gooey off his shoe, “we’re going to do this at Mr. Stark’s house.”

Angie liberates a few pies and a bottle of liquor from behind the counter, setting them down on the booth as soon as they all huddle in together.

“So?” she asks, almost a little breathless, and Peggy swears she can see Angie’s eyes shining in the dark. “Did you get anywhere with it?”

“Peggy seems to think she has,” Howard answers, not bothering to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

As she has done in the past, and will likely do again, Peggy ignores him.

“I found out that Guerriero does a lot of his jobs for cash, and he might be a good criminal but he’s not exactly the smartest. If my intel is correct – and it is – he and his six main associates keep it hidden in their homes. It almost literally smells of dirty money.”

Angie makes a derisive noise. “You’ve got that right,” she mutters darkly and Peggy is forced to bite back an affectionate smile.

“If the police were to get an anonymous tip or two about it, there’s a high chance they’d run background checks on all the men. Most likely outcome? They’ll take out search warrants on them.”

“So what, we’re just going to get them arrested?” Angie sounds both surprised and a little disappointed.

“Of course not, we don’t work for free,” Peggy tells her playfully. “I found out that Guerriero has men working in the police department, so you can bet they’ll get a tip-off and make moves to hide the money. Now – ”

“ _Hang on_ ,” Howard interrupts officiously, fork halfway towards a slice of chocolate pie. “If you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about then it won’t work.”

“Wait, what do you think she’s talking about?” Angie asks, confused.

This time, Peggy keeps her attention fixed firmly on Howard. “It’ll work. Trust me.”

“Come on Peggy, how the hell can we do a Pigeon Drop on these guys?” He sinks his fork into the pie, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary.

“A _what_?!” Angie exclaims, at precisely the same time that Jarvis asks,

“What on earth is a Pigeon Drop?”

Peggy feels herself growing defensive. It’s not as though the group has any ranks or files but, well, if it did, she wouldn’t exactly be second in command.

“I don’t see any reason why we couldn’t do one,” she tells Howard, voice slightly dangerous now. Out of the corner of her eye, she registers Jarvis and Angie exchange a bewildered, slightly startled look.

Howard slightly loses his temper, throwing his hands up and launching a piece of pie into the darkness.

“Peg, we can’t do a goddamned _Pigeon Drop_ on six guys who’ve seen us in this diner before. Even you can’t pull off something like that. It’s impossible.”

“Of course it’s not,” Peggy responds brightly, deliberately changing tack. “It’s not impossible,” she tells him matter-of-factly, “because we won’t we be the ones doing the drop.”

“Okay, will someone _please_ just tell us what the hell a Pigeon Drop is?” Angie asks, gesturing impatiently between herself and Jarvis. With a sigh, Howard finishes the last of the pie.

“A Pigeon Drop is a particular kind of con trick. You have to persuade someone to give you money – I’m guessing you’d have Guerriero believe we’re gonna help him hide it,” he glances at Peggy, who confirms this with a sharp nod.

“Then, you put the cash in some kind of container with money of your own. You know, as insurance. Then you give it to the mark so they think it’s safe.” Howard, ever the budding thespian, deliberately forces his voice into a monotonous drone before adding in a sullen undertone, “which isn’t even applicable to this situation.”

“Just finish the explanation Howard,” Peggy snaps.

Injecting his voice with a healthy dose of sarcasm and in a way that’s cloyingly overenthusiastic, Howard concludes, “then, it’s as simple as pulling the ol’ switcheroo with an identical, empty container and _voila_ Bob’s your uncle. We make off with all the money.”

In the brief silence that follows, Angie turns to Peggy, her eyes wide.

“Well how the hell are we gonna pull that off?!”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the group set up their con, Peggy calls in a favour from an old friend. However the job looks to be in danger when concerns are raised that he might double cross the group and take the money for himself.

There’s an expectation that a good butler is always there to answer their employer’s call.

Edwin Jarvis tonight, more than most nights, particularly wants to strangle whoever set such an unreasonable expectation in place.

He had just popped the kettle on for his and Anna’s nightly cup of tea when Peggy had called, asking if he was free to help set up for a job.

Which of course, he wasn’t. But after years of service, his knee-jerk reaction was always to say ‘yes’, even when his brain very much wanted him to say ‘no’.

Peggy had, at least, sounded completely surprised. “Oh. Good. Well are you able to come over?”

Not about to back out on an agreement Jarvis, resignedly hanging his head, had dressed and collected his car keys (but not before delivering a cup to tea to his wife – _she_ didn’t need to suffer a lack of evening tea, after all).

And to think, he wasn’t even _Peggy’s_ butler.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You called me from my home...to ask me to make a phone call for you?”

He stares blankly at the cell phone in his hand, as though it’s some piece of foreign technology.

Curled up on the couch opposite, Peggy shrugs delicately. “It’s not my fault you didn’t ask what the job was.”

_A good butler never asks questions_.

“Yes because I thought it might have been something a little more taxing for you than a single phone call!”

“It’s an important phone call?” Peggy tries, with an attempt at a placating grin.

“Is it to Queen Elizabeth II herself? Or Prince Philip perhaps?”

A pillow hits his face before he has time to register that Peggy has even thrown it.

“Don’t be sarcastic, it’s the lowest form of wit,” Peggy tells him sternly. “Look, the sooner we get Guerriero reported to the police, the sooner we can set the rest of the job up.”

“What…and you want me? To – ?” Jarvis is so shocked he thinks he might actually have visibly paled. Turning a blind eye to the hundreds of things he’d seen so far was one thing but, “you want me to give a false report to the police?”

“It’s not a false report,” Peggy tells him simply. “Guerriero _is_ a criminal. Besides, I can’t be the one to make the call.” She tells him this firmly, leaving him no room for manoeuvre, but she’s wearing one of those enigmatic smiles she sometimes has. It’s the kind of smile that tells Jarvis ‘ _there’s a story to this_ ’, and given how long she’s been in the game, there probably is one.

“Would it make you feel any better if I told you I’d tried to get hold of Howard before I disturbed you?”

“It might…”

“Well, I did. But I couldn’t reach him, he’s probably out working his wiles on a poor, unsuspecting girl somewhere in the city.” Peggy narrows her eyes slightly, an expression Jarvis recognises as one she uses when she’s particularly exasperated at Howard.

Jarvis takes a deep, steadying breath. “Okay. What do I say?”

“Just tell them you’d like to make a report, I’ve written the address down here for you,” she hands a scrap of paper over to him. “You don’t have to tell them anything other than that you have good reason to believe Carlo Guerriero is engaging in illegal activities.” 

“And this phone?” he jiggles the device in his hand.

“Howard’s been doing something fancy with it. Don’t worry, it can’t be traced back to either of us. So for the love of god don’t try and make up an alias on the spot or something. I don’t want you telling them you’re Marlon Brando or something equally ridiculous.”

Jarvis shoots her a glare, but Peggy’s unaffected. She’s seen him when he panics.

“Are you telling me it _couldn’t_ happen?”

Rather than concede defeat, Jarvis simply shoots to his feet, dialling the number in the way one might rip off a band-aid. Glancing over at Peggy and holding the phone to his ear with both hands, Jarvis shifts awkwardly from foot to foot as he waits.

When he eventually speaks, Peggy groans, covering her face with her hands and sinking lower in her seat.

“Hey…Mack,” Jarvis begins in what is easily the worst American accent Peggy has ever heard. “I, uh, got a…real hot tip for ya.” There’s a brief pause, clearly while someone on the other end speaks.

“Yeah, yeah it’s a guy called Guerriero. Carlo Guerriero. He’s been mixed up in some real dodgy wheelin’ and dealin’. Yeah you might wanna check his place out.” Jarvis’s accent repeatedly falters as he give out the address.

“Just, uh…just a _pal_ ,” Jarvis replies to what Peggy assumes is someone asking who he is. “Yes, well, have a lovely night goodbye,” Jarvis blurts out, no trace of American left in his accent. He all but wrenches the phone from his ear, hanging up quickly and setting it down. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths, his eyes closed.

“Right then,” he says to himself, clearly relieved as he turns his gaze on Peggy. “Very good.”

Incredulously, Peggy pulls her hands away from her face. “ _Very_? _Good_? We’ll be lucky if they even believe that was a real call!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe luck’s on their side, however, because when Peggy next makes it to the diner, Angie tells her that Guerriero has been in a worse mood than normal, and when Peggy checks in with one of her sources, it is to find that one of the police moles has tipped Guerriero off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Y’know English, when you asked me to join you tonight, this wasn’t really what I had in mind,” Angie points out as she stands, arms folded, beside Peggy who is currently staring thoughtfully at the back wall of an apartment block.

In fact, Angie has to stop herself making a quip about ‘bad first dates’, because it’s entirely the wrong moment and she doesn’t really want to complain since, at the very least, she’s spending time with Peggy outside of the diner.

Which, when she thinks about it, is sort of a tragic way to look at the situation, and an equally tragic indication of how far Angie has fallen. Heck, Peggy Carter could ask her to rob one of the apartments and Angie would probably do it. _Probably_. 

Finally coming out of her reverie, Peggy turns to her and, once again without any preamble, asks,

“How are you for climbing up to the third floor?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She makes it.

Angie Martinelli, waitress extraordinaire, and her trusty, worn Converse make it to the third floor without falling back down to the sidewalk.

She literally has no idea how she didn’t slip and break her neck, but it might, possibly, _maybe_ , have had something to do with Peggy offering to go first to suss out the way.

Leaving Angie to climb up behind her. Behind Peggy Carter and her tight, tight jeans.

So yeah maybe it was that.

But now, Angie realises as she stands in a darkened, unfamiliar room, she’s literally just broken into someone’s home without stopping to ask ‘why’, and she’s got no idea what she’s going to have to do next.

“Peggy?” Angie whispers, but is cut off as Peggy gently hushes her.

“Sit down,” Peggy whispers back, nodding her head towards a leather couch.

“What?”

Peggy grins, all impish and mischievous, and Angie’s stomach does something traitorous.

“Sit down, I’ll be back in a second.”

Peggy disappears, doing a sweep of the apartment, returning when she finds it empty as, apparently, she had predicted. She settles herself in a high-backed armchair as though this is the most normal situation in the world, and point blank refuses to answer any question Angie tries to ask her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When someone enters the apartment twenty minutes later, it startles Angie much more than it reasonably should, given that they’ve just broken in and made themselves at home.

A set of footsteps tracks into the hallway, and Angie can’t help but feel that there’s something almost imperceptibly off about the person’s gait. It’s barely noticeable, but there’s definitely something there.

The footsteps head towards the living room but freeze halfway there, as if their owner has somehow realised something is amiss.

“Hello?” a male voice calls out, and Angie looks to Peggy, hoping for direction. In the dark, Peggy shakes her head, drawing a finger to her lips.

Someone wheels round the corner into the room in a quick surge, and Peggy chooses that moment to illuminate the lamp beside the armchair with a firm click. In a single, heart-stopping moment as light floods the room, Angie realises that the owner of the apartment has a gun pointed right at her. Just as she goes to cry out, Peggy clears her throat, drawing the man’s attention away from Angie.

First he looks confused, then cross, and then eventually relieved. “ _Peggy_?”

“Hi, Daniel.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angie goes from being certain she’s about to be shot and killed, to being handed a cup of coffee in about ten minutes flat. 

She hasn’t moved from the armchair, not certain her legs would support her just now, but Peggy had joined the man in the kitchen while he made them drinks, and they emerge back into the living room together, both laughing. Peggy resumes her seat in the armchair, while the man hovers, leaning against a bookshelf.

Quick as a flash, Angie suddenly feels furious and it must show on her face because Peggy’s laugh catches in her throat.

“You two know each other?” Angie asks, her tone hard and steely.

“Uh, yes, sorry Angie. I have to say, I wasn’t expecting Daniel to have a gun on him.” Peggy turns, throwing a questioning look across at the man.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be in my home.”

“Touché.” Peggy’s smile is warm and affectionate and, if anything, this only makes Angie angrier.

“Well what if he’d actually shot it?” she asks, throwing her hands up slightly.

“I wouldn’t have,” the man tells her calmly.

“Angie this is Daniel Sousa,” Peggy says abruptly, before Angie can reply. “I was telling him about you just a moment ago, while we made the drinks.”

“That name in the phonebook is it?” Angie asks, eyeing the man warily.

Daniel laughs, and he and Peggy exchange a look, too quick for Angie to read it properly.

“Probably. But if it is, it’s not me,” he admits. “So,” he asks Peggy, finally moving to sit down, “you just here for a social call, talk about old times, that kind of thing?”

“No, actually.”

Daniel does not look surprised.

“I – well, we – need your help, given that you owe me one.”

Daniel Sousa presses his fingertips together, propping his chin up on the steeple of his hands thoughtfully.

“What do you need?”

“Your input on a job. We can’t make direct contact with our current mark because he knows us.”

Sousa raises his eyebrows at this, “not like you to play that kind of game Carter.”

Peggy throws Angie a sideways, furtive glance and Angie finds herself shocked yet again.

“Call it a new leaf, if you will,” Peggy says dismissively, not quite looking either of them in the eye. “Are you in?”

“Ah, come on Peg, you know I’m gonna need more than that, especially since you just broke into my home.”

“Yeah why did we do that exactly?” Angie butts in. “I wouldn’t have hauled my ass up the side of the building if I could have just taken the stairs.”

“It’s better if we don’t take any chances, not if we’re all going to be working together,” Peggy tells her, though Angie rather suspects it actually had something to do with Peggy's determination to make some sort of grand entrance. To think, Angie could have died for Peggy Carter's theatrics. How… _ironic_. 

“Hey, I didn’t say I was in!" Daniel exclaims. "What’s in it for me?”

Peggy raises an eyebrow dangerously high. “A nice dent in the favour you owe me. Or need I remind you of Newark?”

“I was talking money. And I don’t think either of us wants to discuss Newark right now. Or ever.”

“You might get commission, depending on how much we get out of this. Come on Daniel, it’s not like you’re going to have to invest anything, you’re not going to get a risk-free job like this again any time soon.”

“There’s no such thing as a risk-free job, Peggy,” Sousa shoots back, oddly serious.

And, from the look the two of them share, Angie is beginning to feel as though she agrees. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peggy likes to steal fries, which is a problem given that Howard Stark isn’t exactly prone to sharing. It’s not that he’s uncharitable, per se. He’d just rather he didn’t have things taken away from him, right under his nose.

Peggy is fast though, so that’s exactly what’s happening to him at the back of the L&L Diner.

“Hey, will you cut it out,” he grumbles as tries, and fails, to slap Peggy’s hand away for like the ninth time. “Just order your own, it’s not like you can’t afford to shell out for a side order.”

“True,” Peggy agrees, chewing happily, “but then you wouldn’t look half so fed up as you look now, so I wouldn’t be enjoying myself anywhere near as much.”

“You know you’re like the overbearing big sister I never wanted, right?” Howard grumbles, brandishing a worn-down fork as Peggy prepares to strike again.

“Good. Besides, you can call this compensation. Chips for every time you keep me waiting, or cancel on me without any notice.”

Howard may have been ever so slightly late to the diner earlier. Or maybe an hour and a half late, so Peggy probably has a fair to strong claim to his food.

“So did you only ask me here to get free food out of me, or are you finally going to let me know how this drop’s supposed to work?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to yell at me about how it’s impossible?”

“I don’t _yell_ , Peggy. But for the record, I still think it’s impossible.”

“Fine, look. Pretty soon, Guerriero is going to start looking round for somewhere to hide his cash. All we need to do is make sure we get to him first and we’ll be fine.”

“Yes, but – ” Howard trails off, distracted. “Wait, I think the waitress wants you.”

“ _Angie_ , Howard. Goodness I think you’re just deliberately terrible with names,” Peggy chastises, before turning to find Angie waving at her from across the diner with one hand, and indicating round the back with the other.

“Come with me,” Peggy tells Howard quickly, dragging him away by the arm when he goes to protest about his food.

“It’ll be there when you get back.”

“I – don’t take my food!” he calls back to Angie as Peggy leads him through the back of the diner and outside through the staff door.

“Howard you remember Daniel Sousa, don’t you?” Peggy asks sweetly, gesturing at the figure leaning nonchalantly against the wall outside, hands in their pockets.

Howard grumbles something unintelligible to himself, nodding quickly at Daniel, who returns the gesture.

“So?” Peggy asks Daniel expectantly.

“Guerriero and his buddies frequent a divey little bar called _The Fishtank_ , down in Brooklyn. I’ve caught a few of their conversations for the past couple of nights. They’re trying to split up all their cash, and they’re trying to do it quickly but they don’t seem to be having much luck. Must be hard, finding someone to trust when you’re a double-crossing, back-stabbing criminal,” Sousa remarks casually. “Who knew.”

“Who knew indeed,” Peggy agrees lightly.

“You want me to make a move? Or is it too soon?”

“I wasn’t aware this was your first rodeo,” Peggy tells him with a knowing smile. “Use your best judgement.”

Sousa nods, standing up straight and brushing out his jacket. “If that’s all?”

“Yes, thank you Daniel.”

He’s halfway up the alley before he stops, suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot. Thanks for not blowing my cover with Westbridge the other day.”

“I could say the same.”

“Nice job, by the way. Fake tech, a classic. How did you do?”

“Well enough. What were you doing there?”

“Oh I was working for someone else, they wanted me to get inside and steal some information for them.”

Peggy nods, impressed. “And you managed it, I take it?”

“Depends how you look at it,” Sousa shrugs, already walking away again. “I got the information, but didn’t fancy passing it on after months working for that asshole. So I kept it and sold it on, it was worth a fortune.” With that, he was gone, slinking away into the shadows.

Howard starts so violently that he begins coughing, his eyes fixed on Peggy in a horrified expression.

Well, that certainly changes things somewhat. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He _won’t_ double-cross us,” Peggy doesn’t really remember when she stood up, or when Howard had stood up, but there they were, both standing, fists clenched and voices raised in confrontation. Once again Angie and Jarvis were sat on either side of them, both mute, but listening intently.

“You can’t know that Peg!”

“I know Daniel Sousa well enough to be pretty certain he’s on our side.”

“Well sorry but ‘pretty certain’ isn’t really good enough for me.”

Peggy’s hand finds a nearby vase. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d launched one at Howard’s head.

“Oh don’t quibble over semantics, Howard. You know full well what I meant.”

Perhaps at the sight of the vase, Howard appears to calm down somewhat. At least, his voice is more measured when he speaks again.

“Look. Whatever cash Guerriero wants to hide, we have to match and we’ll be handing every cent of it over to Daniel Sousa to hold on to. I’m a lot of things Peggy, but I’m not an idiot. We have to pull out now while we still can.”

Carefully, Peggy sets the vase back down.

“Don’t you think I don’t know all of that?” Peggy asks, exasperated. “Do you honestly think I’d take that kind of a risk if I wasn’t certain?”

“Sorry Peg,” Howard says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic as he fixes Peggy with a pointed stare. Very quickly, so that only Peggy can see, his eyes quickly dart over to Angie and then back. “But I’m just not sure about that this time.” He shrugs sadly and makes towards the kitchen.

Defeated, Peggy sighs and slumps back into her armchair. “I’d trust you,” she murmurs, not really intending for Howard to hear it.

He hears her nonetheless and stops dead in his tracks, his back towards her.

“What?” his voice is sharp.

“If it were the other way round. I’d trust you, if you said you were certain.”

“Would you?” he asks, tone sceptical. He knows he’s a loose cannon sometimes, knows that he can be too reckless. Peggy couldn’t possibly –

“There wasn’t a second during Rebirth that I didn’t trust you. We both trusted you.”

She hears Howard take a deep, steadying breath, still not facing her. He takes another, and then a third.

“Fine,” he tells her quietly. “Fine.”

Suddenly in need of some fresh air, Peggy crosses the living room and heads for the first exit she can manage to find. Howard’s houses really were too large.

Left behind and feeling wholly forgotten, Angie casts a glance over at Jarvis.

“What the hell was that about?”

“Do you know, I haven’t got the foggiest.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time for the job to play out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading if you've stuck with the fic thus far, feedback would be very much appreciated if you have a few minutes spare

Rather fortuitously, everything seems to go to plan from there.

Sousa quickly makes contact with Guerriero, and, by all accounts, does a good job of selling himself as a criminal who’s willing to hide some dirty money for a while.

For a cut, of course.

(That wasn’t part of the plan, Sousa just likes to off-road whenever he gets the chance.)

It probably helps too that Sousa _is_  a criminal, and is more than able to drop a few choice names into conversation, implying that he’d worked for a lot of people on the city’s crime scene. Most of whom, Peggy knows for a fact, were people Sousa had actually robbed, rather than worked for.

Po-tay-to/po-tah-to.

Meanwhile, Howard does what Howard best, which is procuring materials seemingly from thin air.

He turns up at Peggy’s apartment a few days later with two identical holdalls and a job-lot of photos of an old building he’s going to turn into a credible-looking lock-up facility. Type thing. (They were still ironing out the kinks on that one).

“We’re gonna have the building go from _condemned_ to _criminal hideout_ in no time, Peg,” he tells her proudly, and Peggy rolls her eyes at his choice of words.

They don’t speak about their argument, or about Rebirth. Or Steve. Because they never talk about Rebirth or Steve. It’s probably not the healthiest way to deal with their demons, but it’s holding up pretty well for them so far.

The next day, Jarvis calls to tell her he’s working on withdrawing fifty thousand dollars from their various accounts, which will bring the sum of cash bundled up into one rather large holdall to just over one hundred thousand, with Sousa’s little ‘cut’ added into the mix.

Peggy hangs up the phone from this conversation with Jarvis only to have it ring again, so she answers without bothering to check the caller ID.

“What did you forget?” she asks teasingly, but has a slight surprise when a different voice altogether answers.

“Sorry?”  Angie sounds completely confused, which she has every right to be.

“Oh, sorry,” Peggy crosses her legs beneath her on the couch, muting her television. “I thought you were Jarvis.”

“Nope,” Angie replies, with an odd, nervous laugh.

When she doesn’t speak again, Peggy asks a little awkwardly, “so what can I do for you?”

“I just uh – ” Angie trails off and doesn’t speak again for a while, and Peggy would have thought the call had dropped if she couldn’t hear Angie’s soft breathing through the phone. “I just – I’m a little nervous I guess.”

“That’s natural, it’s the first time you’ve done anything like this.” After a pause, as a joke Peggy adds, “I’m assuming.” 

Angie laughs again, but it’s not much stronger than before.

“I just, I feel like this will all be my fault if it goes wrong. And I have to tell you Peg, I haven’t got fifty thousand dollars to pay you back.”

“The job was my decision Angie, it’s not on you,” Peggy tells her, surprised at how soft and quiet her voice has gone.

“But Stark said – and Sousa, he said too – that you wouldn’t normally – ”

“Let me worry about all that,” Peggy interrupts gently.

“But this isn’t your kind of job, they both said so.” Even down the phone, it’s clear Angie’s fighting against some form of emotion. And what’s more, Peggy can’t really deny that what Angie’s saying is true. “So I guess what I’m asking, what’s really keeping me so wound up is: why did you decide to do it?”

_For you,_ Peggy thinks to herself. _Because saying ‘no’ was unthinkable, especially when you looked at me with so much trust – like you believed I could do anything. It sort of had me believing anything was possible too._

When it comes to feelings, maybe, just maybe, Peggy Carter is a tiny bit of a coward.

“Because you asked me to.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If he’s being totally honest, Daniel Sousa doesn’t really like this job even a little bit. It all feels slightly as though they’re flying too close to the sun, with the whole wide ocean down there beneath them.

But he does trust Peggy Carter, wax wings be damned.

The only comforting factor for Daniel is that Carlo Guerriero, while certainly dangerous, turns out to be rather like almost every other criminal Daniel had come across in his time. Their eyes were bigger than their stomachs, but in a money kind of way. They were all just a lot of greed, and not enough sense with which to temper it.

Case in point: Guerriero’s face lights up like a damn Christmas tree when Sousa covertly shows him Peggy’s money, all fifty grand of it. Daniel can practically see the dollar signs ‘ _ka-ching!’_ to life in Guerriero’s eyes.

“So, what’s next?” Guerriero asks suddenly, sitting across from Sousa in _The Fishtank_ , which is a place Daniel personally can’t wait to see the back of. With a flick of his wrist, Guerriero waves one of his men off to the bar to get more drinks.

“I’ll come by early tomorrow to collect your money, as planned. Then we’ll take it to the lock-up together. That way, you can see that our money is safely contained, until you want your portion back. There are two doors, two separate locks. You’ll have one key, I’ll have the other.”

Guerriero’s smile is a little too satisfied for Daniel’s liking. Still, he takes the beer the second in command offers him.

“And when we call you for the second key, that’s when you take your pay?”

“Of course.”

“ _Of course_. That’s excellent.” His teeth are bared in a way that makes Daniel think of wolves as Guerriero extends a thick, meaty hand across the table. Daniel accepts it before tilting his beer bottle.

“To tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Guerriero clinks the neck of his bottle against Daniel’s. “And to good deals.”

He looks determined and gratified, rather as though he knows he’s just made the best deal of all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The subway.

The goddamned, stupid, confounded _subway_.

After all this planning, they were going to miss the drop because of bloody public transport.

Peggy has a holdall that looks full to bursting in one hand, and her cell phone in the other as Jarvis mutters feverishly in her ear.

She’s lost Howard somewhere in the swell of people making their way above ground, but that’s honestly the least of her worries. As she gradually emerges the crackle in her phone disappears and the reception picks up properly.

“Peggy, where the hell _are_ you?” Jarvis hisses, “I can see them already.”

_Shit, shit, shit_. She’s not going to make it in time.

“I’ve got to cross two more streets before I get there, is there any way you can hold them off?” Throwing caution to the wind, Peggy breaks into a run.

“By doing _what_ exactly?!”

“Christ man I don’t know! Use your imagination?!”

The first set of lights are with her, and she weaves through a gaggle of suited businessmen like a ski slalom. As she dashes down a short street and rounds a corner, she thinks she can see Sousa up ahead at the intersection they’d marked for the exchange, but the traffic is hurtling by too fast for her to get across the next road.

She’s all but resigned to their imminent failure, where there’s a sudden commotion down the phone. She can’t make out much of it, save for Jarvis’s startled cry of,

“What on _earth_ are you doing?!”

The lights change, giving Peggy no time to think about whatever’s happening with Jarvis as she dashes closer to Sousa, shouldering her way through a few commuters with her head down and her hat pulled low, only to find –

Angie kneeling on the ground a few feet away, the contents of her purse littered across the sidewalk. Even from a distance, Peggy can hear her apologising.

“Oh God I’m so sorry! I’m such an idiot, I can’t believe I’ve done this!” Angie’s voice hitches as she goes on, a few well-placed crocodile tears glittering in her eyes as Peggy approaches.

One of Guerriero’s men, half-embarrassed and half-horrified at the sight of this erratic, crying woman had actually bent down to help Angie and the others had been forced to stop, all looking anywhere but at Angie and waiting somewhat impatiently.

No one, in fact, is looking in Peggy’s direction at all, save for the odd covert glance from Sousa.

Just as she dares to hope again, she hears Guerriero himself urge Daniel on, “come on. They’ll catch us up.”

“Sure. Oh actually, just – ” Daniel gives a grimace and an over-exaggerated movement of his leg, stalling for one final minute.

Peggy jostles his shoulder slightly as she brushes past him, just in time to hear him say,

“Damn prosthetics, you know? This one gets stiff as hell…”

And then they’ve passed each other, and Peggy is free to duck into a _Starbucks_ right next to the little group, where she finds Jarvis sat at the window, looking completely as though his nerves have finally given up on him.

Angie joins them a moment later, arms wrapped around her purse, looking both impressed and exhilarated.

“Jeez Peg,” she whispers, “that was _smooth_. I barely even saw you guys do the swap. In fact. Wait. You did manage to do the swap, right?”

Peggy just nods and smiles, still buzzing on leftover adrenaline.

“And look at you,” Peggy says eventually, “looks like you’re getting to be an actress after all. Although,” Peggy adds with a note of caution in her voice, “you’re lucky none of them recognised you.”

“ _Please_ no-one I serve ever takes any notice of me.” Angie finally sits down, her knee bouncing up and down. “God. Is it kind of terrible that I want to do that again already?”

Peggy gives her a knowing look; she’s all too acquainted with that particular feeling.

Suddenly, the door to the shop bursts open wildly and they all turn to find Howard standing there, doubled over and breathless.

“Did you make it? What did I miss?!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daniel joins them that night (or, more accurately, in the early hours), once the L&L is shut and the lights are almost all off.

“Well?” Peggy asks as soon as he sits down. It’s a strange sensation as Angie scoots in closer to Peggy so that Daniel has enough space. Their booth suddenly feels a whole lot smaller than back in the days when it was just Peggy and Howard sat round the table. It’s a nice feeling and Peggy thinks she rather likes it.

Daniel has a huge, satisfied grin on his face. “I waited all day and they didn’t show up until about eleven-thirty. Totally worth the wait though.”

“Oh god, how pissed was he? On like “pissed criminal” scale, with ten being the most?” Howard asks gleefully, almost as though he’s forgotten how close he came to vetoing the whole job. Peggy doesn’t mind though, not really. “Spare no details, this is my favourite part,” he asks, clapping his hands together.

“What about the money part?” Peggy asks playfully.

“Okay fine. It’s my _second_ favourite part.”

“Oh yeah he was pissed alright, he quite literally shouted so much his face went red. He looked like steam was about to come out of his ears.” Daniel turns to Peggy, snapping his fingers as he tries to recall something. “Exactly like that guy in, oh…um…”

“The guy in Albany?” Peggy supplies, laughing at the memory.

“Right, Albany guy!” Daniel is laughing too, laughing so hard he struggles getting all the words out audibly.

“Wait, I don’t understand. Guerriero went back for the money? To double-cross you?” Angie’s never felt more like the hayseed rookie in all her life.

“Hell yeah, that’s the fun of Pigeon Drop, kid!” Howard tells her, now deliberating between two pies left in the middle of the table. “You have to give the mark a chance to double-cross you, otherwise where’s the fun in being one step ahead?”

_Oh_. Angie supposes that makes sense.

“I gotta say Peggy, the – what? couple of hundred bucks was a good touch. He asked me to see his cash one more time before I locked it away. I thought I was done for, that I was gonna have to show him a bag full of old newspaper.” Daniel turns specifically to Angie. “And trust me, my days of outrunning a group of angry thugs are long behind me.”

“It _was_ a bag full of old newspaper,” Peggy remarks as she dabs crumbs off her plate with a finger. “Just…with a hundred dollars spread out over the top. One hundred for fifty thousand, that’s my kind of trade. Oh, which reminds me.”

Reaching under the table, Peggy withdraws the black holdall and unzips it.

“Your ‘cut’,” she tells Daniel, air quotes and all, handing over a brown paper bag. “You know we’d have given you a share right?”

He shrugs, opening the bag and ruffling one of the wads of cash. “Now you have more for one of the job funds. Win-win.”

“Correct. Which I am going to be passing over to you,” she says as she slides a considerably bigger bag to Jarvis. “That’s along with the original fifty, of course. Plus your ten thousand share. I’m sure your wife would like to go somewhere nice and warm?”

“No expenses spared,” Jarvis agrees rather humbly.

“And Howard,” Peggy says finally, tossing Howard’s cut across the booth. “This is yours to…well,” Peggy falters, “no, actually please don’t bother. I don’t really want to know what you spend yours on.”

There’s a collective hum round the table, though more out of agreement than amusement and Angie basks in the warmth of it all, of this moment, of the dynamic of this strange, dysfunctional little family. It’s nice, really. Almost as nice as the feeling of satisfaction at having royally screwed over Carlo Guerriero.

So she really isn’t expecting anything more when Peggy turns to her with an extravagant flourish.

“And what, Miss Martinelli, are you planning to do with the first ten thousand dollars of your ill-gotten gains?” Peggy asks with a huge smile, producing one final brown bag and sliding it a few inches in Angie’s direction.

For a moment, Angie can’t speak. Which takes a lot, really. For just a moment, she sits in shocked silence.

“But – ” she splutters eventually. “But. I’m not…I don’t – ” She swivels to look, open-mouthed, at each person in turn.

“I’m not – ” They were giving her _ten thousand dollars_. That was more money than she’d had in one go in her entire lifetime.

“You gave us the tip, you deserve a cut,” Peggy tells her, and the way she smiles at Angie, all proud and tender, causes something strange and uncomfortable to climb to Angie’s throat.

“I mean I know I’m not technically part of the decision-making process,” Daniel cuts in, “but you literally saved the whole operation today. You’ve more than earned your share.”

“I still wish I’d seen that,” Howard adds bitterly to himself.

“Next time,” Peggy assures him, and Angie stares at her.

“Next time?”

“Yes I rather think so, if you want to.”

For the second time that night, Angie Martinelli is speechless, grateful only that there were four other people around her to fill the silence, pretending not to notice as she takes a moment to get her emotions under control.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the delay in updating! uni has absolutely kicked my ass. there's a teeny tiny bit more peggy/angie in this one, so hopefully you enjoy it! as ever, i'd love to hear what you think.

“A what?” Angie asks, a few sweet ripples between her eyebrows.

“A roper,” Peggy repeats patiently, though Angie is obviously no clearer on what Peggy’s talking about.

“Give her a break Peg,” Howard cuts in, emerging from the kitchen alongside Jarvis, a bottle of bourbon in one hand, and four glass tumblers deftly balanced in the other. After filling the glasses and passing them round, he sinks into a nearby armchair and turns to face Angie.

“We all have a job description, depending on where our talents lie,” Howard explains. “Peg,” he tilts his glass in Peggy’s direction, “is our insider. She’s the one who goes in and does all the acting and really sells the whole thing to whoever we’re trying to con. She’s also in charge,” Howard fixes Peggy with a tilted smile, and she freezes, genuinely surprised for a moment.

“Whereas _I’m_ ,” Howard draws his free hand to his chest in a grand gesture, “a fixer. I make sure we have access to everything we need to make a con seem believable. We need to set up websites? I do it. We need tech? I get a hold of it. Business cards and leaflets to make a fake company seem legit? No problem. Whatever we need, that’s my job.”

Angie nods, rapt. “So what does that make me?”

“Well, being a roper’s almost the most important job of all, really,” Peggy tells her with a wide smile, quietly delighting in how Angie’s face brightens at the comment.

“A roper is the people-watcher, the one that finds the marks and draws them in…” Howard supplies.

“…Someone that the marks won’t expect, someone who can slip by without causing a fuss,” Peggy adds with a knowing smile that draws a slight blush to Angie’s cheeks. _Trust Peggy to have sussed her out so thoroughly_.

“So.” They’re so engaged in their own conversation that they all jump slightly when Jarvis clears his throat and speaks. He’s still standing off to the side, holding a tray of food. “If we all have a job title, what am I?” he asks, his tone slightly prickly.

A brief look of panic passes across Howard’s face, before he turns to face Peggy so quickly she’s surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “Well go on Peg, you tell him, I know you want to.”

Peggy does the first thing that comes to mind, which frankly only makes the situation worse.

“No, Howard you tell him, you’ll explain it better than I will.”

“Don’t do yourself a disservice Peggy!” Howard tells her theatrically. “You’re the leader you do should it.”

The silence that follows is excruciating until a small huff of laughter pokes its way between Angie’s pursed lips. Angie can’t seem to get herself under control after that and when her shoulders begin shaking, it’s enough to set Peggy off with her. Howard, still looking rather guilty, joins them a moment later and, eventually, even Jarvis laughs. A little. 

Once they begin to laugh together, the four of them find that they don’t especially want to stop. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Even so, Peggy makes a mental note to take Jarvis aside and explain to him that the notion of an “all-rounder” isn’t as much of a cop-out as it seems, because all-rounders are the ones that usually hold a group together when times get tough.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In time, they really get into the swing of things as a group. Daniel doesn’t become a completely permanent member, rather he enters and exits the team dynamic however they all see fit.

When he is around for a job, however, Peggy rather enjoys his company – it reminds her of old times, of the halcyon days when they used to run in similar (though not actually inter-connected) circles. Daniel had been part of a group of grifters lead by old-hat con artist Roger Dooley when Peggy first met him. Dooley was a world-class grifter to be sure, but by the end of his reign in the city his tricks had become a little outdated. For whatever reason, Sousa had only struck out on his own after the incident that left him hospitalised and an amputee, but Peggy privately thought he made a better lone artist – Dooley had never really seen Daniel’s full potential.

For her part, Peggy had never been a full-time member of Dooley’s team, had just helped out when she was making her name. In truth, she’d never really warmed to the likes of Carroll or Krzeminksi. Daniel, at least, had been different; nicer, _better_.

Nonetheless, their shared past didn’t necessarily mean Daniel wanted to give up his lone wolf act entirely, and Peggy couldn’t say she totally blamed him. Especially when time with the group often consisted of the so-called ‘playful ribbing’ that characterised life with Howard Stark and Angie Martinelli.

Of course, Daniel always gave quite as good as he got, but if Peggy was being honest, it was possible that Howard and Angie got on _too_ well. They found common ground with alarming rapidity, making ties through, amongst other things, a shared sense of sarcastic, playful humour; a mutual love of practical jokes; and a rampant interest in practicing such jokes on their fellow grifters.

And while Daniel might have decided to drift in and out of the group, Angie quickly becomes an almost permanent fixture in Peggy’s life as soon as she joins the team.

This isn’t, of course, something Peggy is objectionable to, although she tries to keep at least some form of emotional distance from Angie. Falling for people in the job had burnt Peggy once before, and she wasn’t about to let it happen again.

Besides, there are other things to concentrate on. Like the fact that, with a bit of positioning and direction, Angie is quickly turning into a top-class roper. Biased as she was, Peggy truly believes in Angie, believes she could become one of the best.

Peggy has seen first-hand that Angie has a seriously good eye for picking out viable marks – she’s always people-watching, always has an ear on what those around her are saying. And she is even better at drawing them in. As time goes on, Angie laughs, flirts, and charms her way into the attentions of numerous marks, leaving them vulnerable and unsuspecting when the rest of the team finally move in.

It’s clear that Angie is determined to prove herself and, after a while, Peggy begins to wonder how the team had ever functioned without her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so it goes for weeks, and then for months. Spring yawns into life across the city, ushering in weak rays of sunshine and delicate new blooms and blossoms and, as it does so, the team experiences a line of quick successes and easy wins.

After the drama of the Guerriero con, they dedicate their time to setting up jobs as far away from their own doorsteps as possible, which means avoiding marking out any more L&L clients. Still, they manage to take a handy sum from the sale of fake Yankees memorabilia to a baseball-mad black market trader within Angie’s first official week on the team.

Not too much time later, Angie, acting on her own initiative by tirelessly scouring newspapers and doing background checks, presents the team with details about a businesswoman called Alexandra Garnis. Garnis enjoyed tricking vulnerable people into selling their homes to her, convincing them she’d act as a benevolent landlady. Which, by all accounts, she did for a while, until she raised costs, forced families out of their homes, and then sold the properties on for a generous profit.

In her time, Garnis had also cultivated a taste for fine jewellery and precious stones, or so Angie infers from context – and a lot of online candid photographs. So, Peggy sets Howard to creating a believable-looking “gemstone”, one so rare it is (rather conveniently) unheard of, while Peggy herself transforms into a saleswoman of sorts, working on convincing Garnis of the stone’s legitimacy.

After just a week, Garnis buys their synthetic – and completely worthless – stone for just under fifteen thousand dollars. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The only slight, _miniscule_ , drawback is that having Angie on the team makes Peggy nostalgic, not that she’s about to admit that anyone.

It’s close to impossible for Peggy to take on the mantle of “mentor” without thinking back to her own days as a complete novice. The problem is that while Peggy rather enjoys thinking back to her past, doing so also conjures up far too many memories of people who are no longer a part of her present.

She was only a kid when she started out; barely nineteen, close to penniless, and newly arrived in the city. That was why Chester Phillips had caught her trying, in a moment of guilty desperation, to trick some extra money off her bill at a food store. He saw some potential in her, apparently, because he took her in.  

Peggy might be a master of the long con now, but she had started out doing short, simple tricks for easy, instant cash. And Phillips never let her forget it. At first, Peggy had thought it had been his way of insulting her, but now, with hindsight and a bit of experience, she better understands why he liked to keep her conscious of her roots.

Some days, it reminded her why she did the job at all.

Phillips, in spite of taking a risk by recruiting Peggy (and boy, was that his favourite refrain for a good many years: “ _I took a chance with you Carter, don’t you dare blow this for us_ ”), was far from a delicate flower. He was gruff, coarse, and unforgiving. And most of the time, he’d taught Peggy by tricking her first.

Just like Angie, Peggy had learnt as she worked jobs, completely devoid of any past experience but with heaps of natural talent for cons.

Being pushed so quickly into the cut and thrust of this particular world often left you carefully calculating who you could trust, and forming particularly close bonds with those who passed whatever tests you set for them.

Which had explained Steve. And Bucky and Howard, Dugan and Gabe.

All of them gone now, save for Stark. All of them dispersed and scattered, gone their separate ways after Steve’s death.

_Steve’s death._

This was precisely the reason Peggy didn’t like to dwell, but preferred instead to keep an eye on what was in front of her at any given moment.

Which, in the current moment, is Angie, still working at the L&L to avoid arousing any suspicions and, in her words, “for financial security”, which was certainly a prudent sentiment of which Peggy heartily approved.

Perhaps one of the few positives to have come out of Peggy’s recent reminiscences was that they provided her with good inspiration for teaching Angie how to be more alert, and also how to pick up new tricks and cons. Most recently, Peggy had been stuck thinking about two of Phillips’s pieces of advice: the first being not to underestimate the value of the short con, and the second: “sometimes you have to trick them to teach them”.

(His words, not Peggy’s). 

It wasn’t always kind, but some of those lessons had been Peggy’s most memorable. Which is what she thinks about as she waves a ten-dollar bill at Angie, who point blank refuses to take it, crossing her arms and glaring at Peggy from the across the diner’s counter.

“Honestly English, I don’t think Patricio’s so hard up we can’t afford to give out the odd cup of tea,” Angie protests, rolling her eyes and smiling affectionately, which should probably make Peggy feel guilty for what she’s about to do. Namely, teaching Angie the ignoble art of change raising. 

“Just because I’m a criminal, it doesn’t mean I don’t pay my way,” Peggy insists, lightly grabbing Angie’s wrist and pressing the money into her palm. She regrets the move immediately, studiously ignoring the urge to stroke her fingers across the soft skin of Angie’s hand.

Peggy draws back quickly, lest her self-control desert her completely and leave an awkward situation in its wake.

Angie concedes defeat with a strange, slack expression, holding onto the money and staring down at the spot on her wrist where Peggy’s hand had been. With that, the air around them seems to shift in the way a cool, clear summer’s night might suddenly condense, heralding the coming of a storm. The air in the diner seems to become thicker, heavier, and full of something that can’t quite be put into words.

After a momentary pause, Angie remembers herself and drifts to the till, passing Peggy eight ones and some shrapnel, almost on autopilot.

With such a sudden shift in the atmosphere, Peggy almost forgets her plan, only pulling herself together at the last minute.

“Actually, I think I have two ones somewhere in here, can I exchange them for that ten?”

“Sure!” Angie is all too obliging, forcing herself to be as casual and cheery possible, quickly pinging the till back open and fishing out Peggy’s ten, sliding it carelessly across the counter.

Peggy makes a great show of rifling around her purse, before nodding at the radio. “Would you mind changing the channel?”

Grinning fondly, and suddenly feeling a little more natural again, Angie jokes, “jeez, English, come home and I’ll keep you.” Still, she’s glad to have something to do other than stare awkwardly at Peggy, and she hurriedly turns away, fiddling with the dial on the ancient radio set.

Whilst Angie is distracted, Peggy slips the ten dollars on the counter amongst nine ones, producing the little wad of cash with a flourish.

“Here you are,” she says and, sure enough, Angie immediately plucks out the higher bill.

“Y’know, for a criminal you’re not too careful about your cash Peg,” she laughs, raising an eyebrow and offering it back over.

“Oh, I can’t imagine how that got in there. Well since you have it,” Peggy feigns a small amount of embarrassment before fishing out one final dollar bill, “can you take this one too and just make it a twenty?”

Again, Angie makes a joke about Peggy being too demanding and she’s just about to hand over Peggy’s money before she stops, stock still.

“Hang on a sec. Where’s the ten I just – ”

She looks so sweetly confused that Peggy bursts out laughing in spite of herself.

“For an _aspiring_ criminal, you’re not too careful about your cash either,” Peggy mimics, and Angie, exasperated but laughing, tosses all the money in her hand towards Peggy. It never reaches her, of course, fluttering down somewhere close to Angie’s feet.

“Oh you _ass_. What are you conning your own friends now?”

“Not necessarily,” Peggy jokes, dragging her bottom lip between her teeth. “But it’s a good way to learn.”

Angie leans across the counter to playfully smack Peggy on the shoulder, but when Peggy meets her eye, they’re suddenly both much closer than either of them had anticipated. Peggy’s smile freezes on her face as she finds herself staring intently at Angie’s lips.

Suddenly desperate for some fresh air, Peggy pulls away and stands up so quickly her stool skitters a few inches off to the side.

“I should, uh – ” she clears her throat awkwardly and grasps about for an excuse to leave.

Angie, however, is even quicker.

“Yeah, me too, got lots of work to do before I can close,” she mumbles, fumbling with some dirty glasses and refusing to make eye contact.

“Right, well…night then,” Peggy says abruptly as she makes for the door far too quickly, glad of the chilly night air that hits her face as soon as she’s outside, her cheeks burning and her mind racing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Howard Stark was not a man who liked to dwell on regrets. It distracted far too much from whatever genius idea his brain was mulling over in the present.

However, contrary to popular belief, that did not mean that he did not have regrets. In fact, he had many of them. Of course, the Rebirth job always came to mind first, but he’d had to bury the memories of that particularly deep down just to keep himself going.

More recently – and thankfully more trivially – Howard is regretting ever underestimating Angie Martinelli.

“I’m telling you, this guy’s a dead cert for our next job,” she is telling him confidently, fiddling with the label on her beer bottle.

Angie’s this tenacious ball of energy, which means Howard had loved her instantly (and all the more so as soon as he’d worked out that she’s always game to try out his, frankly, _ingenious_ prank ideas).

Which is a little what this latest brainstorming session feels like. Angie had gotten wind of an up and coming tabloid which was always filled with sensational stories and gossip pieces.

“So what, _all_ their stories are just trash talk?” Howard asks, scrolling through _Expose Magazine’s_ webpage on his cell phone.

“Mmhm,” Angie agrees, hurriedly swallowing a mouthful of beer. “They’re sensational because they’re not true. And the last one was so bad, this local campaigner had to go into hiding because of all these terrible false accusations about her. And the editor doesn’t give a rat’s ass that he’s messing with people’s wellbeing,” Angie explains, gesticulating more and more wildly as she grows more impassioned.

Nodding, Howard finds the article and physically recoils as he skims through it. Talk about a smear campaign. It’s probably no different from what most of the media was doing these days, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t afford to take a look at it.

“You got anything in mind?” Howard asks and Angie frowns, thinking hard.

They’re alone in his living room, with Jarvis making good on his promise to take his wife away on a weekend break, Daniel on a lone con, and Peggy off somewhere she’d point blank refused to disclose on the phone earlier.

With such little supervision, what follows is almost inevitable. And really, if you think about it, it’s everyone else’s fault for leaving them alone to plan a job in the first place. 

“We could try selling them a fake story,” Howard muses, speaking more to the silence than Angie in particular. “Something we can sell as real, but that can be easily debunked a little while later? It might lose them some face.”

Angie nods enthusiastically and, after a few more minutes of hard thought, she strikes gold.

“You know what? I reckon they’d go hard for some British Royal Family scandal.” In the dim light, Angie’s eyes glint playfully. “And I think I know two people who’d be perfect for that particular job.”

“ _Oh_.” Howard’s brain catches up a millisecond later. “That’s brilliant. But you know they’re gonna hate that, right?”

“Please, I’m practically counting on _that_. But I think I can persuade them,” Angie says with a shrug, biting back a playful grin.

“Jesus,” Howard breathes, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve created a monster.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for the delay - thank you for sticking with this fic if you haven't given up on account of the wait time (all i can say is being a grad student is equal parts tiring and rewarding!)
> 
> i hope the horrendously cliched scenes and ust between peggy and angie make up for the wait - as ever i'd be delighted to read your thoughts! thanks in advance for reading!!!

Of all the things Howard and Angie do before informing Peggy and Jarvis of the job, going ahead and passing on Peggy’s telephone number to _Expose_ as a potential source is probably the worst, and Peggy reacts about as well as can be expected.

She shouts, and then she grabs the nearest item (thankfully only a rolled up copy of the offending magazine), and this time she really does hurl it at Howard’s head. 

He says ‘ow’ pre-emptively, though the impromptu missile can’t actually hurt in the slightest as it grazes past the side of his head. 

“Oh don’t be a baby,” Peggy snaps, “it’s only paper.”

“Well I might have got a paper cut,” he points out with a frown, bending to pick up the magazine. “This isn’t the kind of face that deserves a scar, Peg.”

“You’re lucky I don’t test that theory,” Peggy says darkly, before rounding on Angie. “Him,” she growls, pointing over at Howard. “I expected this from _him_. Not from you.” 

Howard gives an offended cry but Peggy’s eyes don’t leave Angie’s face.

Angie can’t say for sure if Peggy is genuinely as angry as she seems to be. No matter what, this is a good job. It’s kind of a dead cert as far as Angie can tell, and she’s pretty sure Peggy is hamming her reaction up for effect, simply because – as _de facto_ leader – she can’t really let this slide.

Whatever the truth really is, Angie can’t quite force herself to look abashed. For one, setting up a job where Peggy might have to pretend to be royalty is quite literally the best prank Angie and Howard have pulled so far.

For another, the sight of a seething Peggy Carter – pink cheeks, heaving chest, and hair slightly mussed where she’d swept her hand through it – is, as it transpires, kind of a turn on.

So Angie simply bites her lip against a traitorous smile, eyes never once leaving Peggy’s.

After a very tense – and somewhat loaded – pause, Howard asks meekly,

“But you’re gonna do it, right?”

“No, Howard!” Peggy cries incredulously, as though Howard had just asked her to poison her own grandmother. “Of course I’m not going to do it!”

Angie’s heart drops to her stomach. Maybe Peggy really _was_ disappointed in her.

“This job is a really good one Peg,” Howard insists quietly, still holding on to the magazine.

“You want me to convince someone I’m a member of the royal family and that Jarvis is my butler.”

“Only half a lie,” Howard points out reasonably.

“ _What_?!" 

“Well…Jarvis _is_ a butler…”

This time, Peggy’s hand finds a glass salt-shaker and Howard’s hands immediately go up in surrender.

“Okay, _okay_. We fucked up. Sort of. But are you really going to back down from this job?” Howard tries, and it’s clear he’s trying to make this sound like a challenge.

 Angie personally thinks those kinds of tactics will only make Peggy more likely to throw the shaker, but she keeps that thought to herself.

“Is that really the route you want to take in this situation Howard?” Peggy asks mock-sweetly, and this is, if anything, more terrifying than the out and out anger.

 “I’m just saying you can pull this off, I know you can.”

“Flattery won’t work either.”

“Then what will?” Angie asks suddenly, and Peggy turns sharply towards her again. “What can we do to show you that we actually _are_ serious about the job?”

“You can’t,” Peggy sighs, dropping the salt-shaker back onto the counter. “But equally I’ve got no choice now, you’ve made the calls. But allow me to reiterate this to you both: I am _not_ – I repeat, not – pretending to be a part of the sodding British royal family,” she growls as she stalks off.

In the distance, they hear her grumble to herself, “of all the bloody clichés at their disposal and they go and pick this one." 

“Well,” Howard says seriously a moment later, drawing a steadying breath. “That actually went very well.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Howard knows a lot of people.

Like a _lot_ of people.

That’s how he’s able to set up everything the team needs half the time, apparently. (The other half is something to do with him being some kind of genius but, for Angie, the jury’s still out on that one somewhat). 

At any rate, the stretch of Howard’s influence is somehow close to unlimited, so if he wants Felicity Gillingham’s name plastered all over the internet and inserted into news stories from years ago then he can have it done in no time. 

Thus, Felicity appears on the world wide web a few days later as a personal aide and confidante to more than one member of the British royal family. Most prominently, she is a good friend of William and Kate, but Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie loved her too, apparently. Even Zara Phillips asked her for advice every so often.

So, it would be completely fair to assume that Gillingham had a great deal of personal information about the royals. Which is presumably the thought process of _Expose_ ’s editor-in-chief when he calls the number Howard had given the magazine to ask about an interview.

It’s just fortunate for him, really, that Felicity Gillingham has recently (and oh-so coincidentally) had a high-profile falling-out with her regal ex-besties, because she’s more than willing to dish out all that gossip. For a price, of course. 

Peggy had been stubbornly insistent that the team go with her idea for a cover and Angie can see why as she listens into Peggy’s conversation with Nigel Cole, one of _Expose’s_ reporters. Peggy’s accent had become even stronger as she drifted effortlessly into the guise of an upper-class English caricature. 

“You see, the problem is that they’re rather powerful people to be upsetting.”

“Of course Ms. Gillingham, I understand that.” Nigel Cole’s voice is crackly as it drifts over the speaker. “We absolutely don’t have to print your name if you’re uncomfortable with that.”

Angie shakes her head to herself at the lie. The magazine had, on many occasions, promised anonymity to its informants and then later betrayed them to take the heat off of themselves. Peggy catches the movement and tips Angie a small smile. 

“Well it’s not just that, you see. They’re going to know it was me, so I’m going to need to find a way to lay low for a while.” Peggy is direct enough that Cole cannot pretend to misunderstand. 

“Well we are, of course, willing to offer you payment depending on the, ah, _quality_ of the story you can offer us.”

Peggy leaves a significant pause before saying quietly, “well, for now let’s just say that it concerns the line of succession.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If Angie had known that all it took was an innocent little set-up to get Peggy Carter out on a shopping trip, then she would have done it months ago.

The preparation for the _Expose_ job is all but done, and they’re left covering the small details that often help to really sell a cover. In this case, browsing high-class, boutique stores to find something Felicity Gillingham might wear to a big-deal interview. 

Privately, Angie had assumed that Peggy would have already owned something suitable, but either this wasn’t the case or Peggy was looking for an excuse for the excursion. Angie isn’t really fussed either way. 

Peggy is hovering over a potential skirt and silk blouse combo that, together, totals more than the value of the family car Angie learned to drive in, when Peggy’s phone rings. She quickly adds the two garments to a steadily growing cluster of things to try on.

 “It’s Howard,” she informs Angie before answering and treating Angie to a less than illuminating half-conversation.

 “No I’m out shopping –

“For the Gillingham job what else? –

“Yeah, Angie’s here too, why? –

“No just tell me now while I’m on the phone –

 “Howard I don’t see why you can’t just – 

“Oh _fine_ ,” she sighs before rattling off the name and rough address of the shop. “Well I’m about to try something on, we’ll be in the changing rooms you’ll have to wait out– 

“For god’s sake Howard don’t be lewd, honestly I – what?

“Because it’s unbecoming you complete and utter ass.” Peggy quickly hangs up, presumably to have the last word, and shakes her head to herself. 

“Is there a problem with the job?” Angie asks, stomach turning over.

“I don’t know, maybe. Howard wouldn’t say unless it was in person,” Peggy closes her eyes with a tense, long-suffered sigh before opening them a minute later, her head evidently much clearer. “Anyway, want to give me a verdict on these?” she asks, gesturing to all the clothes still in her hand.

Angie smiles, bracing herself. “Sure.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Upon reflection, going out shopping with Peggy Carter was probably the worst idea ever.   

Angie initially tries to maintain a respectful distance, hovering outside the dressing room with her back towards the curtain, but Peggy deems it unnecessary.

So instead, Angie hovers _inside_ the dressing room, with her back to Peggy every time she changes. And then, when Peggy asks for a verdict, Angie does her best to say something constructive and not to concentrate on the way a violet silk shirt shimmers against Peggy’s skin, or the way a snug pencil skirt looks over the strong curve of Peggy’s thighs.

And then, because Angie did something awful in a past life apparently, the inevitable cliché surfaces. As if Angie’s current predicament wasn’t bad enough on its own.

“Can you zip me up please?” 

Angie swallows so hard it must have been audible. 

“Yeah, course.” She winces; her voice is far too bright and sugary as she slowly turns and _oh god_.

Peggy has her back to Angie, holding her hair to the side expectantly. The zipper of a sweet black dress with a stark cream collar is all the way down, revealing a long, _long_ triangle of soft, pale skin and, yes, _of course_ Peggy Carter wears expensive, coordinated underwear just to go shopping.

There’s a blush of peach-pink lace beneath Angie’s fingers as she sweeps the little tag of the zipper upwards, trying not to think about how her hand skims up the whole curve of Peggy’s torso.

In the mirror, Angie catches Peggy’s eye and it the look she sees on Peggy’s face feels somehow like they’re both about to be caught in a summer downpour. Just like last time in the diner.  

“Thanks,” Peggy murmurs when Angie is done, while Angie’s hands linger softly against Peggy’s back. 

As Peggy goes to step closer to the mirror, Angie stops her with a hand on Peggy’s shoulder.

“Wait,” Angie says, voice barely above a whisper. “The collar’s all twisted up." 

Angie tells Peggy to turn, and they’re standing almost impossibly close once Peggy complies, Angie’s fingers working the collar into place while Peggy’s gaze tracks across Angie’s face as though she’s searching for something. 

Once it’s nicely straightened out, Angie keeps a hold on the dress’ collar, pinching it between on either side between her forefingers and thumbs. There must be something strange in the air, or maybe she ate something funny at lunch earlier, because Angie stops thinking. Her mind quite literally stops processing anything that doesn’t involve using Peggy’s collar to urge her slowly – agonisingly slowly – closer. 

Dimly, Angie feels like she should be bracing herself for Peggy to push her away, feels like she should be more worried than she actually is about the possibility that Peggy might send her out the cubicle, disgusted that she ever let her into the changing room in the first place. But Angie doesn’t have the mental wherewithal for that, and when Peggy’s eyes flicker shut, any self-control Angie might have had left completely deserts her.

For her part, Angie keeps her eyes open, not wanting to miss a thing. They’re so close their noses brush, and Angie could probably count each of Peggy’s eyelashes if she was so inclined. Peggy’s lips are parted in anticipation, and Angie can feel soft, gentle puffs of breath on her face and _jesus_ this is happening.

This is _happening_.

She’s going to kiss Peggy Carter and – 

There’s suddenly a huge commotion outside the changing area, with someone insisting that _sir, you absolutely can’t go in there_ and suddenly, the voice of Howard Stark filters into earshot.

“There’s nothing to worry about, we’re all friends!” he tells someone cheerily, before calling out to Peggy and Angie. “Ladies? Are you decent? Don’t rush to change on my account.”

That is all the warning Angie has before the curtain whips open, and she has to jump away from Peggy as though there’s an electric current running through her.

Somewhere in the background, Jarvis is apologising for Howard in a manner that suggests he’s all too accustomed to expressing such contrition. When Angie chances a glance at Peggy, her expression has shifted and is both easily readable and completely terrifying. She’s angrier than she was last week when she found out Howard and Angie had set her up. She looks as though, this time, she really does want to kill Howard Stark.

For the first time, Angie wholly understands the impulse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Howard, it transpires, had arrived on the scene specifically to tell them that _Expose_ had called Jarvis (acting as Peggy’s butler) about rescheduling the interview. For tomorrow morning.

“Did it sound deliberate?” Peggy asks Jarvis, still looking rather frightening (though it’s probably unintentional since Jarvis has done nothing wrong). 

Jarvis, bless him, is suitably unnerved nonetheless. “I don’t understand.” 

Peggy sighs. “Publications like this get a lot of people trying to sell a fake story. Bringing the interview forward suddenly is a very normal tactic.” 

“Oh. Yes, well, I can’t be sure but it’s certainly a possibility,” Jarvis admits, still looking rather unsettled. 

“Right. Everyone get out. Now,” Peggy tells them all sternly before snapping the curtain shut behind them.

She emerges in quick time and herds them all out onto the shop floor, buying the dress and politely refusing all offers of fancy wrapping and packaging. As she hands a credit card over, Peggy instructs Howard and Jarvis to hail a cab, and it occurs to Angie that she’s seeing Peggy in full ‘leader’ guise. This is the ruthlessly efficient, calm, and controlled Peggy Carter that, at any other time, would probably be yet another turn on of sorts.

“What are we doing now?” Angie asks, only noticing the potential double-meaning of her words a moment later.

Peggy fumbles with her purse, looking uncharacteristically ruffled, as though she’s unsure of which meaning she should address. 

“We, uh… “ she catches sight of a taxi pulling over outside the shop and, unless Angie is very much mistaken, Peggy almost looks apologetic. “We’re going to have to camp out at Howard’s place – well, one of them – and make sure we have everything completely watertight for tomorrow.” 

The only thing that Angie can imagine being more excruciatingly awkward than discussing what almost happened in the changing rooms is _not_ discussing it.

“Oh, okay.”

Peggy suddenly pauses as she walks past Angie towards the door. Her hand grasps briefly at Angie’s forearm, squeezing lightly.

“I’m sorry Angie.”

And she looks it. She truly, _truly_ looks sorry. Angie just has no idea exactly which part Peggy was meant to be sorry for.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The toe of Howard’s shoe makes sharp contact with Angie’s shin, and it’s a lot harder than it looks. 

Angie grimaces and gives a hiss of pain, bending forward to rub her hand across the spot. 

“What the hell was that for?!”

“You look tense,” Howard advises, speaking quietly from the corner of his mouth. “It’s going to draw people’s attention, just act natural.” 

Angie recognises instantly that he’s right but with her leg still stinging, she isn’t about to admit it. 

“What does “act natural” even mean?” she grumbles irritably. 

“I don’t know,” Howard shrugs, not realising it was intended as a rhetorical question. “Just relax. Or something.”

“What an appalling piece of advice,” Angie sighs, but Howard simply raises his eyebrows at her, not looking away from the menu in front of him.

Angie risks stealing a glance behind her, where Peggy and Jarvis are sat a few tables away. Peggy looks completely at ease (as ever), while Jarvis fiddles nervously with the handle of his teacup.

Peggy had pointed out that there was technically no reason for Howard and Angie to be on site, and Angie had personally hoped she’d be able to busy herself with a diner shift, or else would be at home alone, able to wear a hole in her carpet without anyone else seeing. Howard, however, had pointed out that it was perfectly reasonable that he and Angie could be taking brunch at the hotel the _Expose_ journalist had suggested.

It was perhaps the most lavish place Angie had been in that wasn’t a Stark mansion, but she didn’t have the heart to appreciate the velour menus or heavy silverware right now. 

The thing Peggy had failed to mention when she gave Angie the job of roper, was just how often Angie would feel completely responsible for every single job the group did. Angie was the one who picked the marks, so – to her mind – it was on her if the job was a bad one.

Opposite her, Howard is reading aloud from the menu, but Angie’s stomach is too unsettled to feel hungry.

“…but then, the eggs also sound good. Don’t you think the eggs sound good?” He looks up, expecting Angie to concur, but instead she leans over to him so rapidly the cutlery rattles together slightly.

“How can you be so calm about this?!”

Again, Howard shrugs. “It’s not a dangerous job. Worst case? The journalist realises it’s a fake and we don’t make any money. Peggy inherits a new item of clothing and we all get brunch.” 

His tone is far too flippant and it takes every ounce of Angie’s self-control not to react. Howard must sense this, however, because he adds, “look, there’s never any gain without a risk in this job. I know it’s stressful now but I promise you get used to it.”  

Angie nods, temporarily placated, and a waiter comes over to take their order. Glancing nervously across the table, Howard simply asks for two lots of whatever it is he wants, astute enough to realise that Angie has absolutely no interest in brunch right now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“She’s panicking,” Jarvis murmurs in Peggy’s ear, as they watch Nigel Cole make for the bathroom. 

“She’s fine,” Peggy replies firmly, not bothering to turn around and check on Angie and Howard.

“Of course, I can’t say I blame her one bit,” Jarvis says to himself, prompting Peggy to smile over at him.

“Well for what it’s worth, I think you’re both doing very well.”

“I’d say it’s worth a great deal. However perhaps the key question is whether, as a group, _we’re_ doing well?” Jarvis asks, nodding at Nigel Cole’s empty seat.

Peggy nods. “Yes, I’d certainly say he’s buying it. Did you remember to tell him we wanted payment in cash?”

Having money wired to them wasn’t completely impossible, but any kind of non-physical transaction was far too easily monitored to be completely safe. Bank accounts could be investigated, and even if money was only kept in certain accounts for a short time, transferring it would leave a trail. Cash paid sparingly and slowly into multiple accounts in multiple banks was far, far safer.

“I told him we had our suspicions that the royals might be waiting for you to sell on information and were probably watching your bank accounts to see who was paying money in,” Jarvis explains.  “I let him know that we’d all be less likely to be hounded if we were paid in cash. I think it made him a little more suspicious, but he didn’t say ‘no’ either.” 

With a quick, curt nod of her head Peggy indicates to Jarvis that the journalist is returning. 

Nigel Cole isn’t the brightest button in the box, in either intelligence or appearance. He had a toothpaste stain on his shirt that he persistently tried – and failed – to hide beneath a rather dingy-looking tie, and he’d lapped up Peggy’s fake story, in spite of his attempts to convince her he was still sceptical. 

That isn’t, of course, a coincidence. Peggy had spent a few afternoons sifting through back-issues of _Expose,_ looking for Cole’s old writing. After all the gutter journalism she’d subjected herself to, Peggy more than feels she’s earning her money on this job.

“So, Ms. Gillingham,” Cole says in an oily voice as he resumes his seat, “tell me more about this heir to the throne nobody else knows about.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The story about a secret royal lovechild goes into print a week later, by which time Felicity Gillingham has disappeared with a substantial amount of _Expose_ ’s money. 

That’s not to say Peggy is simply laying low. Rather, they give it a day for the story to blow up across certain internet forums and news sites, and they wait for Buckingham Palace to get hold of the story. Then, Howard wipes every trace of Gillingham from the web, leaving _Expose_ without a leg to stand on when they try to protest the legitimacy of their story.

The Palace successfully discredits their story within the next twenty-four hours, as Peggy and Angie discover late at the diner, scrolling through Peggy’s phone for news stories related to the magazine. 

Things between them aren’t quite back to feeling comfortable yet, but they’ll get there.

But that doesn’t mean Angie has to be happy about how things worked out. She’s persistently torn three ways between just forgetting the whole thing almost happened; trying to talk about it; and just grabbing Peggy, kissing her senseless, and hoping for the best.

She really wishes she had the courage to opt for option number three, but instead she does nothing. Many times, she tries to make herself raise the issue with Peggy, and every time so far she’s chickened out. She gets the feeling Peggy has done the same thing more than once as well.

“Hey, Peg?”

“Yeah?” Peggy sounds intense and almost a little hopeful, as she does every time Angie has tried to be brave so far.

“Can I – uh. Can I…” Angie tries to do it. She really, really does. “Can I be a bit rude and ask if you mind me closing a little early? I promised my mom I’d try and call round tonight.”

“No, of course I don’t mind!” As she always does, Peggy seems equal parts relieved and disappointed.

She slowly collects her things and bids Angie goodnight, giving her best wishes to the Martinelli family members she’s never actually met. 

For a long while after Peggy leaves, Angie stares at the red ring of lipstick on the white cup Peggy leaves at the counter. 

_Next time_ , Angie promises herself. 

_Next time_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~in which i sheepishly fill a gap without resolving any ust, and pretend to be sorry that i'm dragging it out
> 
> as ever, your reviews mean the world to me - thank you for reading!

There’s a possibility that Howard might never get used to just how disappointing the _L &L_’s food is. He picks unenthusiastically over a side salad, before deciding it was probably safer to just leave it uneaten.

“Are you ever going to tell me where you were the other day?”

“What other day is that?” Peggy asks disinterestedly, not looking up from her newspaper.

“The day I invited you to a planning session but you didn’t show.”

“Do you mean the day you and Angie thought it would be funny to try and convince me that Mr. Jarvis and I should pretend to be royalty, simply on account of our accents? Is it that day you’re referring to?” Peggy breaks away from a news column long enough to flash Howard a steely glare.

“Yes, that’s the one,” he replies unflinchingly.  

“Well in that case…” Peggy allows for a significant pause. “No.”

“C’mon Peg, you’re never just “ _not available_ ” for a brief. Just tell me where you were.”

Idly, Peggy separates the pages of the newspaper at the corner, turning one over once they all come apart.

“No.”

“How bout a deal? If you tell me, I’ll – ”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me tell you what the deal was.”

“Howard, there’s nothing on this earth you could offer me that would make me confide in you now.”

“C’mon, there must be _something_.”

“I can assure you there isn’t.”

“Are you sure?” Howard asks, trying for all the world to be mysterious and enticing.

“Knowing how much you want this, I’m a hundred percent sure." 

“ _Rude_.” 

Howard is silent for a moment, but Peggy has known him too long to think he’s given up entirely. It’s only a matter of time before –

“See, I’d say you were on some kind of date you didn’t want me to know about but that can’t be true,” Howard says, and waits for Peggy to take the bait. And waits. And waits.

“How long do you have?” Peggy asks eventually, a playful glint in her eye.

“All damn day if necessary,” Howard grumbles, but concedes defeat nonetheless and goes on without being prompted. “ _Anyway_. I’d have said you were on a date but Angie was with me the whole night so that can’t be true." 

Howard’s a genius in more ways than one (in the same way that he’s also an idiot in more ways than one), so he always knows what buttons to press if he really wants to wind Peggy up. She promptly closes the newspaper, folding it neatly in two.

“Howard, I don’t know what you mean, neither do I want to find out what you mean. However, I can assure you that Angie’s whereabouts have no relation to my dating life.”

“So you _were_ on a date? Peggy you sly old thing,” he jokes, slapping her playfully on the shoulder.

“Don’t be a pedant. No, I wasn’t on a date.”

“Of course you weren’t because Angie was with me!” Howard cries, a little too loudly given their current location. On impulse, Peggy folds the newspaper again and lightly _thwacks_ Howard on the side of the head with it. 

“Want to keep your voice down when you’re spouting utter nonsense?” she hisses, checking that Angie is still out of sight in the kitchen. 

“So there _is_ something?” Howard whispers, waggling his eyebrows seductively.

“No, there is not ‘something’ you complete ass. And I won’t have you making things awkward by suggesting there is.” Okay. So it’s not a hundred percent a lie. 

“In that case,” Howard asks accusingly, brandishing a napkin at her, “what was happening in that changing room the other day?”

“Aside from you showing a reckless disregard for others’ privacy based on the fact that you’re an incorrigible womaniser?” Peggy asks drily. 

“ _No_. But thank you.”

“Allow me to be abundantly clear about this. That was not, and never will be, a compliment. It is, in fact, a scathing summation of what is effectively your worst trait.” 

For a moment, Howard grimaces, looking as though he’s fighting the urge to retort. Eventually, he manages to speak.

“Trying to change the subject won’t stop me, I still want to know what was happening between you two.”

“ _Nothing_ , Howard. Nothing was happening, nor had anything happened,” Peggy growls. ‘ _Thanks to you_ ’, she thinks to herself bitterly. 

“But you want it to, right?” Howard confirms, waggling his eyebrows again. “And remember, if you avoid the question, you answer it anyway.” 

Peggy hovers, torn between denying everything and simply admitting it and moving on. In the end, she opts to throw an open ketchup packet at Howard. 

“I’m not having this conversation anymore,” she tells him, biting back a smile and not quite meeting his eye.

“You just answered it!” Howard cries gleefully, dabbing at the red sauce that drips slowly down his nose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If there’s one thing Peggy wants kept on the down-low, it’s that she’s kind of a sentimental idiot. She’s fine with it (we all have our foibles after all), she just doesn’t want anyone else knowing about it. 

Which is why it was rather fortunate that Howard was far more interested in pulling at the thread attached to her relationship with Angie – though that was a point of stress in itself – than the one attached to her absence from his mansion on the day he and Angie had started up the _Expose_ job.

(Which had been a good lesson in never leaving Angie and Howard alone to pick a job ever again). 

Peggy is very keen to avoid clueing Howard into where she’d been at the time; it simply isn’t worth the upset it would cause.

Because if she’d spent the afternoon laying flowers at Steve’s grave, and then the evening going through old photos and their Rebirth files with a glass or two of wine, then that was her business. Whenever they give too much thought to the Rebirth job, Howard – understandably – withdraws and has to be coaxed back into the group like some form of strange, moustachioed woodland creature. It was always so far removed the overconfident, untouchable image he liked to give out.

Angie, however, is different. She doesn’t have that connection, doesn’t have that burden on her shoulders. 

So when the two of them indulge in a movie night over at Angie’s flat in an accommodation block called _The Griffith_ , and Angie asks where Peggy had been, Peggy tells her. It’s nice to confide in someone, and even nicer to pretend that she and Angie aren’t still tiptoeing around the Dressing Room Incident.

“You must promise you won’t tell Howard, though.”

“Why not?” Angie asks, all gentle curiosity.

“It’s,” Peggy sighs, sipping at her drink. “It’s a very long story, Angie.” 

“Well I got plenty of time on my hands,” Angie says with an encouraging smile.

And so, for a moment, Peggy thinks. And then, she speaks. 

Although Peggy feels as though the date has been etched behind her eyes, Howard seldom remembers the anniversary of Steve’s death. The first year, Peggy was furious at him for ignoring it – she needed him, needed his support. But as time passed, Peggy mellowed and came to understand that evasion was just part of Howard’s base survival instinct. 

Because he’d pushed for the team to take the job. He’d pushed and pushed, insisting it would be the best job of their lives. Long after Phillips had retired, it had been Steve who’d become the group’s leader, and it had been Steve that Howard had worked to convince to take the job. 

It would be simple, Howard had said. Simple with the highest payoff they’d ever encountered – millions of dollars, enough that they could all retire there and then if they wanted to. But Steve had never really been in it for the money, more for the thrill of robbing those who deserved taking down a peg or two.

Steve always had been one to stick it to the bullies.

But that couldn’t change the fact that it had been Howard who had sold the mark – a businessman all set to demolish half a community in a corrupt money-making scheme dressed up as a construction project called _The Rebirth_.

“So we went in, tried to sell ourselves as contractors in an elaborate building scam,” Peggy says heavily, sweeping her thumb around the rim of her glass.

“I assume it didn’t go well,” Angie asks sadly.

“No,” Peggy affirms with a bitter laugh. “Our mark caught wind of what we were doing. Normally we’d just slip away. But the mark had an enforcer, this ex-assassin who wasn’t above any kind of job. He jumped out at us one night a few days later, and in the confusion of scuffle Steve was…” she draws in a long, steadying breath. “Steve was injured.”

Peggy’s voice catches and Angie’s hand darts out. For just a second, she hovers uncertainly before resting her hand gently over Peggy’s forearm.

“We got him as far as the hospital and he had a good fight but…” Peggy trails off and turns away, hiding her face slightly and hoping the message was conveyed.

The tiny sounds of the room are suddenly painfully amplified as Peggy struggles to get her emotions in check. The ticking of the wall clock is transformed, as though the pendulum were suddenly a hundred times larger, and the whirring of the DVD player (the movie long since finished) now seems closer to the rattle of a motor engine.

“I’m really, really sorry honey,” Angie murmurs into the quiet eventually, her thumb skipping smoothly back and forth over the cuff of Peggy’s sleeve.

This is, in part, why Peggy is so reticent with regards to Howard’s questions about her relationship with Angie. Falling for Angie had been difficult, it had felt like a betrayal of Steve’s memory at first, even though she knew, deep down, that Steve wouldn’t see it that way. But there had been no one since Steve, no one for years and years now. Peggy isn’t quite sure how Angie had slipped past all the defences she’d put up, but somehow she had. 

“Tell me off if I’m being too invasive but, were you and Steve? Did you two ever?” Angie fumbles about for the right words, settling eventually with what she had.

With a shake of her head, Peggy gives a small, wet chuckle. “No. We might have been perhaps, but it just never – well, it never happened.” 

Peggy and Steve had been an almost; lingering glances, tender touches, and almost kisses. Almost confessions. Almost lovers. But very definitely separately in love with each other. Privately enamoured, yes, but never really a couple.

In the silence that follows, the parallel isn’t lost on either of them and Peggy suddenly feels as though there’s an extra weight crushing her down.

An almost. _Just like her and Angie_ …

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angie nearly jumps out of her skin when her main phone rings. Nobody ever calls the main line except for her grandmother on odd occasion, and she certainly did not ring at – Angie squints at her watch – seven o’clock in the morning. 

There’s enough light filtering under the curtains to herald the coming of another balmy day, just straddling the gap between the spring and summer weather and it illuminates the horrendous mess of Angie’s living room. Half her DVD collection is strewn across the floor, interspersed with an empty wine bottle and two glasses, along with the old flotsam and jetsam of a takeout order. 

As Angie tries to wipe the sleep out of her eyes and motivate herself to pick up the phone, it suddenly registers to her that she should not be waking up in her living room, and especially not with something incredibly hard and uncomfortable jammed between her ribs.

She remembers quickly.

After hearing her story, Angie had pulled Peggy in for as close to a hug as they could manage sat side-by-side on the couch and, after a great deal of wine and food, slumber must have overcome them fast. Peggy’s head remained where it had started – on Angie’s shoulder – and her elbow was poking into Angie’s side.

As if things weren’t complicated enough. _Great_. 

Angie quickly wakes Peggy, getting up as soon as Peggy is half-aware and answering her phone.

“Hello?”

“Miss Martinelli?” the voice of the building’s landlady-come-receptionist filtered through to Angie, sounding mightily unimpressed. Theirs was something of a tense relationship (a relatively impressive feat, given how little they saw of each other).  “There are three men downstairs demanding to be let up to your room.” 

“Three men?” Angie asks, puzzled for a moment.

“Yes,” Ms. Fry tells her stiffly before going on to describe – with alarming veracity – three people who could only be Daniel, Howard, and Jarvis. “You _know_ how I feel about you having strange men above the reception area Miss Martinelli.”

_Of course_. Fry was something of a living, breathing museum piece. Though when it came to Howard, her paranoia about men visiting the tenants’ rooms might not actually be totally out of place.

“Not to worry Ms. Fry, they’re very old family friends,” Angie tells her as cheerily as possible, spinning a yarn about the three men respecting Fry’s code of conduct. 

Fry huffs and puffs a little down the phone, but essentially can’t refuse to let the men upstairs owing to it no longer being the 1910s, and Angie thinks she hears Howard make some flippant, flirtatious comment as she hangs up. She suppresses a smile. Miriam Fry had also attended the Peggy Carter School of “throw semi-harmless objects first, think later”.

Oh. Peggy. 

Nervously, Angie glances over at the couch, where Peggy is now upright and fully awake. She seems to have gleaned enough to guess what’s happening, smoothing out her shirt and getting up to start moving some of the mess from the night before. 

They tidy up as best they can, sharing the odd tense look as they pass, but they don’t speak a word to each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Now, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here this morning,” Howard asks grandly once they’re all settled around the room, stroking his moustache theatrically.

“The three of you literally invited yourselves round to my apartment,” Angie responds darkly. “There’s no ‘gathering us’ to take credit for.”

“I called Jarvis, he came round and picked me up, we got Sousa and now we’re all here with you. How is that _not_ gathering us all together Martinelli?”

“Just tell us what’s going on, Howard,” Peggy interrupts sharply. 

“We have a problem,” Howard tells her quickly and Angie assumes it must be a relatively large problem if Howard had resisted the obvious ‘Houston’ joke. 

Peggy raises her eyebrows in a silent gesture for Howard to explain.

“Do you remember Fortuna?”

Peggy full-on grimaces. “I’m not about to forget that in a hurry.”

“Yes, well that’s our problem. He’s back.”

Glancing around the room, it’s clear to Angie that this conversation has meaning only between Peggy and Howard, but whatever’s happening is enough to make Peggy look seriously worried. 

“Back in what way?”

“Back as in I bumped into him at a bar last night.”

“Do I want to know what happened?”

Howard frowns. “Not really. He asked if I was still in the business and I panicked and said yes.”

“ _Howard_!" 

“I know, I know. Rule number one always say you’ve moved on, I know Peg. Like I say, I panicked a bit.”

Angie assumes that where a bar was involved, ‘panicked a bit’ might also have meant ‘was a bit drunk’, but that seemed like the least of Howard’s problems right now.

“So anyway, he asked if we could hook him up again and when I said I’d have to check the books, he took care to point out all his men dotted around the bar to me.” Howard swallows loudly, looking as though even recalling the incident is mildly distressing.

“So you ran away?”

“Of course I bloody ran away Peg!” 

“But…” Peggy prompts and Howard seems to visibly shrink into Angie’s armchair.

“But not before I’d given him a phone number.”

Peggy drops her head into her hands. “Please. For the love of God _please_ tell me it was a fake number.”

“Like I said, I was panicking…”

“You weren’t panicking Howard you were _drunk_!” Peggy cries, “and trying to sniff out another job.”

Howard has the good grace to look a little abashed. 

Sat between Jarvis and Daniel on the couch, Angie gingerly raises her hand, catching Howard’s attention. Peggy looks up from her hands as Angie begins speaking.

“Yes, hi, me again. Want to share what the hell’s going on?” So she’s being a bit sarcastic without cause, so what? It gets tiresome always having to be the one begging for illumination.

“Vincent Fortuna is a mark of ours from a while back. He’s…disgusting, not to put too fine a point on it,” Peggy explains, as now seems to be customary for the group. “He runs a string of fake model agencies, so many of them he’s almost a brand name.” Peggy gives a small shudder. “You’ve probably heard the scam. He tells young people – girls mostly – that he’ll make them stars and takes a fee from them, only to let them down later. Sometimes he just drops them, other times he coerces more money out of them.”  

“Please tell me the job you did was unrelated,” Jarvis murmurs, staring uncomfortably at his knees.

“Trust me, the only connection was that we targeted him _because_ he’s a hideous human being,” Peggy affirms forcefully.

“A hideous human being with a taste for fine art, weirdly,” Howard adds thoughtfully, as though of greatest concern right now was Vincent Fortuna’s simultaneous enjoyment of both exploitation and nice paintings.

“We should have just called the police on him like I wanted to,” Peggy sighs bitterly.

 “But instead you sold him a fake painting?” Angie guesses and Peggy nods. “And now he wants another?” she asks and receives another nod.

“Well that shouldn’t be so hard, just have someone paint another fake,” Jarvis points out and Angie has to hold in a small laugh. Amongst any other group of people, that would be laughable. Here, however, it’s deemed a perfectly fair statement. Except –

“It’s not that simple,” Howard cuts in with a shake of his head. “Fortuna was terrifyingly rigorous and he also has a lot of back up from armed thugs and bodyguards. It was a risk trying to trick him once, we’re going to need a miracle to successfully trick him twice. And leave with our kneecaps intact.” 

“Plus we don’t have Lorraine,” Peggy adds cryptically and Howard nods.

“While I don’t know why I’m even here,” Daniel says mildly, making Angie jump as he suddenly speaks for the first time that morning, “can I point out that there’s someone who could probably work on the inside for you if that’s what you wanted.”

Peggy’s eyes widen first in shock and then in anger. 

“No, Daniel I won’t do that.”

“Also,” Howard interjects, “you’re here because we need all hands on deck for this con.” 

Daniel shrugs, ignoring Howard and looking directly at Peggy. “Fine. But it’ll be your funeral.” 

“Daniel I’m not going to ask her to help us,” Peggy repeats, but her voice wavers. 

“Who’s Peggy going to ask for help?” Angie asks Daniel, but it’s Peggy who answers, her tone dark and surprisingly ominous. 

“Dottie Underwood.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went about resolving a few unresolved things, since y'all have been so patient...
> 
> (i'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter, thanks for reading!!)

Howard Stark doesn’t really go in for discomfort and embarrassment. It’s not especially conducive to his lifestyle. But as he sits face to face with a woman he’d known as Ida for one rather, ahem, _pleasurable_ night, he’d really rather like it if the ground could open up beneath him and swallow him whole. And preferably very soon, please and thank you.   

Ida or Dottie or whoever she really is had not hesitated in making it abundantly clear that she and Howard had met before, but Howard isn't especially worried about Peggy finding out about _that_ part.

No, the embarrassing part was that Howard had mysteriously lost his wallet (containing a far from modest amount of cash) that night, and it is only as he sits across from a woman he now knows to be a con artist that he suspects where it might have gone. 

Since the two women share some kind of history, Peggy would know that a con had most likely gone down, but Howard can only wonder how long she’ll sit on that piece of information for.

Both Peggy and Dottie are, apparently, rather reticent about their own past connections. Whatever they were, there is clearly no love lost on Peggy’s side, though Dottie behaves as though the two are old friends, sweeping over to their table when she arrives (fashionably late, as Peggy points out afterwards) and bending down to embrace Peggy, smoothly planting a kiss of both of her cheeks.

“ _Peggy_ ,” she exclaims with a million-watt smile, “it’s been far too long.” 

“Yes, quite,” is all the response Peggy can seem to muster. 

Dottie’s enthusiasm for, well, everything is blinding, and possibly completely contrived. Howard can’t be too sure, which only serves to reinforce how good a con Dottie Underwood likely is.

She’s good enough, at least, for Peggy to grudgingly trust her to go undercover on the Fortuna job when they finally get down to brass tacks over brunch. Which had been Dottie’s idea, apparently, because Peggy looks as uncomfortable as Howard has ever seen her, and that was saying a lot since Peggy was rarely uncomfortable. Their livelihoods kind of depended on that.  

Dottie agrees easily to help out with the con, which surprises Howard. From the way Peggy had dragged her heels over making contact with Dottie, Howard (along with Jarvis and Angie) had assumed they’d have to offer out a great deal of money to get her involved. They promise her a fair cut, but it’s far less than Howard had envisaged, and it takes little to no bartering at all.

When he mentions this to Peggy on their way to the diner later, she makes a derisive noise in the back of her throat. 

“Goodness knows what other favour I’ll have to invent to placate her later. Dottie gets her kicks out of more than just the money aspect of cons, she’s all about the thrill of the chase. She makes her money mostly out of short cons. She’s good at long cons too, of course, but she’s also very opportunistic and very able to strike on a whim.” The corners of Peggy’s mouth twitch as she fights against a smile. “As you may have noticed.”

Howard stifles a sigh. There went the last vestige of hope that Peggy might not have guessed what the outcome of Howard’s night with Dottie-slash-Ida had been. 

“Yes, from my experience she’s not so much the long con aficionada,” Howard agrees quietly.

“Well actually, Dottie does particularly enjoy _one_ long con.”

“And what is that exactly, assuming I even want to know?” Howard asks.

“The ‘black widow’,” Peggy tells him pointedly and Howard stops in his tracks.

“That’s funny,” he replies, trying valiantly to be light-hearted as he gives a hollow chuckle. “That sounds like the one where she marries a rich guy and then kills him for the money.” 

“Yes Howard,” Peggy says as she tilts her chin, not bothering to fight against her grin this time. “That’s exactly what it is.” 

Perhaps he’d had a lucky escape to lose only his wallet that night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“She’s a good con artist, and we need someone on the inside,” Peggy explains patiently yet again, with an amused glance at the scowl on Angie’s face.

“Still doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Angie mumbles, pretending she can’t hear how petulant she sounds. “Or her.”

( _‘Or the way she flirts with you_ ,’ Angie thinks to herself, noting just how much she feels like an eleven year-old in the school playground again).

“Of course not, I feel the same,” Peggy confirms obligingly, the playful glint in her eye making it clear that she’s teasing Angie. _But only very gently_ , the dimples in her cheeks seem to say.

Angie nudges her shoulder into Peggy’s, knocking her ever so slightly off course as they walk, perfectly in step, along the sidewalk, enjoying what feels like the first real day of summer sun.

Peggy curses her playfully, shoving her back and Angie thinks that devilish smile on Peggy’s lips should be illegal, especially when she’s wearing such sinfully short cut-offs at the same time. 

They laugh and jostle each other like children, and it’s the most normal and easy things have felt between them for weeks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Here’s the deal,” Howard says, sitting stiffly on the very edge of his seat at the diner (and Angie can’t help but be a little happy that she isn’t the only one unnerved by Dottie), “if we send you in, Fortuna’s going to take you – well, us – for at least a thousand dollars, that’s his regular agency charge. If you can play it really stupid, he’ll probably try and take you for more.”

Across the table, Dottie wears a faint pout. “I think we both know I can do that,” she says in a sing-song voice, deliberately babying Howard.

Angie feels her eyes narrow slightly. Dottie Underwood is anything but stupid and she isn’t to be trusted, that much Angie knows.

“I’m sorry, are we now playing a game where we’re aiming for the marks to take _our_ money?” Jarvis asks, clearly as tetchy as the rest of them. In fact, the only person who looks completely at ease is Daniel, lounging in his chair and nursing his drink rather indulgently.

“It’s objectively the best risk to take,” Daniel says, “if we get Dottie inside, we can work out what painting we can try to sell to Fortuna.”

“Why do we have to work out which painting to sell him? If we’re getting someone to paint it for us, can’t we work with anything?” Angie asks. 

“One rule of the long con,” Peggy joins in, but Angie cuts her off.

“No, hold on right there. You tell me that every time we do a con. And then every time you tell me a different rule. There are literally _hundreds_ of special con rules.” 

Peggy quirks an eyebrow at Angie before slowly unfurling a maddening, flirtatious grin. So flirtatious that even Angie knows she isn’t imagining it.

“Okay. One _very important_ rule of the long con. Never work the same con twice. Any good grifter can trick a mark once, but only a fool tries to do it again.” Peggy sends a look in Howard’s direction. Stark merely holds up both hands in acquiescence.

“So, we’re playing it safe. It’s better to assume that Fortuna has his suspicions about us and cover ourselves unnecessarily, than to get caught out in a couple of weeks. So Dottie’s going to go in and work on his weaknesses. We need something he wants enough, so much that he forgets himself. It’s the best chance we have of pulling this off again.” Daniel explains, finally draining his glass.  

“Then, once I know what it is, I go ahead and tell you guys, you find someone to make up a decent fake and I’ll start subtly working on convincing Fortuna he wants to buy this long lost painting!” Dottie fills in brightly. She beams at them all, and Angie half-wonders if the woman has ever done subtle in her life. Clearly, she must have done or Daniel and Peggy wouldn’t have let her within two miles of this job, but the way Dottie grins with all her large, white teeth doesn’t exactly fill Angie with faith; Dottie smiles in the way a shark might. And sharks don’t smile. They devour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ever since she was young, Dottie had endorsed a very important policy. If someone puts their hands on you without your consent, remove them.

Not from your body of course. From _their_ body. Many people simply don’t believe her when she tells them that she’s done precisely that before. But she has. Unfortunately, however, this isn’t an option with Vincent Fortuna. Not yet, anyway. But her patience is wearing thin because _lord_ is he handsy.

There’s only a limited amount of compassion in Dottie’s daily quota, but she certainly feels it for the girls who genuinely believe they’re entering into a modelling contract, only to spend their days being groped by Fortuna’s sweaty hands.

But, because she’s agreed to see the job through, she contents herself with merely _imagining_ the crack of Fortuna’s wrists breaking in her grasp. She paints on her best smile, flirts relentlessly, and plays dumb in a way that should be illegal for someone so intelligent. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, it was hard to say), male underestimation was how most of the women in her business made their money. Even that new friend of Peggy’s had it down to a fine art.

Dottie had almost rolled her eyes when she met the girl Peggy had picked up as the new roper. Though, to be fair, she was also exactly Peggy’s type – equal parts sweet-plus-gentle and wiry-plus-tough. Like a terrier. The mutual attraction between the two women was clear, and so obviously repressed it was almost touching to witness.

(What? she did say _almost_ ).

That kind of thing always had been Peggy’s weakness…

Dottie had no time for such frivolous trappings as weaknesses. Except maybe her temper, she concedes, as Fortuna’s hand once again climbs up her leg and she is forced to pretend to find some enjoyment in the feel of his thick, stubby fingers on her skin.

Still, it’s not all totally worthless, because by the end of the week she’s able to make a call to Peggy.

“Hello?” 

“Matisse. Fortuna is after a Matisse.”

She hears Peggy’s disgruntled sigh drift down the phone.

“So, nothing too unreasonable then.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angie finally gives voice to something that’s been bothering her for a while as she and Peggy make their way through Brooklyn, both flagging slightly under the glare of the sun but completely unwilling to admit to it. 

“How is it that you guys just happen to always know the right person to help with a job?” 

Peggy shrugs, chewing at her lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Resourcefulness?” she suggests, though she elucidates when Angie flashes her an unimpressed look. “I suppose we’re just always on the look-out for things in this job.”

“Okay but where do you just happen to find a painter who’s willing to copy the style of  Matisse at short notice for a stupidly high sum of money, no questions asked?”

“Well this one’s easy at least,” Peggy says with a smile. “Steve went to art school, and he called in a favour from a friend on the first Fortuna job. Don’t ask me how Howard knows half of his contacts, though. I don’t know. Neither do I want to, most probably.” 

Angie chuckles, rubbing at the sweat clinging to the nape of her neck and watching the grey tarmac of the sidewalk pass beneath their feet as they stride along, the two of them still perfectly synchronised.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Steve’s friend’, it turns out, is a short, rather sarcastic man with a mop of red hair and paint stains on his fingers and forehead. He greets Peggy like an old friend, and rolls his eyes when she says she’s visiting about business.

“Takes a con to get you out here to see me, huh Peg?”

If he’s surprised about the request Peggy then makes, or the very generous sum of money she offers, he doesn’t show it, just chews his lip thoughtfully and says, 

“I can make some excuse or other for a few commissions I have but it’s gonna take me the better part of two weeks. Can you hold off your mark for that long?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Peggy says, wearing that steely, determined expression that makes Angie’s knees go a bit weak.

“Might give you a bit of time to plan out how you’re going re-con a mark,” he jokes, eyebrows raised in a way that suggests he knows exactly how high-risk this could become. 

“Yes, and I think we might just need it,” Peggy says with a grim, tilted smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The thing is, for all the group’s worries, it really should be plain-sailing from there. 

Jarvis calls into the diner during one of Angie’s morning shifts about a week later to tell her that Dottie had planted the seed about the painting.

“What did she do?” Angie asks as she fishes a cup out from beneath the counter, curling her lip slightly and not bothering to hide her distaste in the slightest.

Jarvis smiles knowingly. “I’m reliably informed she simply allowed him to overhear a telephone conversation “about some fancy painting by _Harry Matiste_ that’s supposed to have emerged on the black market.” She read it online, apparently. Howard had the articles put up a few days ago.” 

“She still going with the ‘innocent farmgirl’ routine?” Angie asks darkly. 

“Am I to assume you are not a fan of Miss Underwood?” Jarvis asks playfully, stirring milk into his coffee. 

“If you have to ask the question then you already know the answer,” Angie tells him haughtily and he laughs.

“Why ever would that be?” he asks, quirking a knowing eyebrow and Angie feels heat rise to her cheeks. Was she really so transparent? 

“No comment,” she tells him simply, and Jarvis bows his head in acquiescence. 

“I understand that Miss Underwood rather enjoys knowing she gets under people’s skin,” Jarvis tells her, his tone inferring a suggestion for Angie’s benefit.  

Angie rubs at a mark on the table with a tea-towel.

“So long as she does what she’s supposed to do I guess I won’t have too much reason to complain.”

“Well, she tricked Mr. Stark so I’m sure she’s perfectly convincing.” 

Angie yelps as she splashes hot coffee over herself at this announcement.

She takes the handkerchief Jarvis smoothly produces from one of his pockets, wiping at her arm.

“She did _what_?” she asks incredulously, ignoring Jarvis’s suggestion that she run her arm under the cold tap. She’s had worse.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” he asks, biting back a satisfied smile Angie knows he thinks is unbecoming on him.

“No,” Angie says gravely, tossing a towel over her shoulder and sliding into the seat opposite Jarvis. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. “Tell me everything. Spare no detail.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angie teases Howard non-stop for three days straight after that. In the end she stops because, despite herself, she actually feels sorry for him. A little. But only because he has the air of a puppy with its ears drooped back and its tail between its legs.

Also because ‘plain sailing’ quickly becomes stormy seas.

Angie knows they’re in trouble when the whole group – minus Dottie – walks into the diner together. They’re far too early for a social call – they always come after dark and, given the time of year, it’s barely dark outside, so Angie knows there must be something wrong.

Besides, the look on Peggy’s face confirms it.

“Fortuna called, he wants the Matisse,” Howard tells her once they’ve all squeezed awkwardly into the booth. The diner has a few patrons dotted about, though none are seated too close by to hear Howard’s anxious whispering. Even so, Angie still keeps half an ear on what’s happening behind them.

Angie’s gaze darts from one unhappy expression to another.

“But that’s a good thing, right? That’s what we wanted?”

“He also threatened him,” Daniel tells her bluntly. “He said something to the effect of knowing Howard and Peggy overcharged him something wicked last time. And he’s made it clear what’s going to happen if they try and pull anything on him again.”

“It means the job isn’t a coincidence,” Peggy supplies dully. “Fortuna is waiting for us to double-cross him somehow.”

Howard raises his eyes to Angie, and the look on his face unsettles her.

“Yeah, and he’s painted his own picture – a damn colourful one – about what’s going to happen to us if he’s not satisfied this time.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As they count down the time until the painting is ready, it’s not only Howard who is shaken. Fortuna’s threat does something to Peggy too. Angie can’t say exactly what it is, but it halts all the progress they’d been making towards being ‘normal’ once more.

Just like that, Peggy suddenly becomes more distant again, and for a while Angie can’t tell what the problem is. Then she remembers that Peggy lost Steve to a job not a million miles from this one. 

It’s precisely the sobering thought Angie never needed.

The dynamic in the group shifts significantly as the job progresses. There’s no joking around, not even between Howard and Angie, Daniel looks constantly tense, and Peggy is persistently withdrawn and snaps at everyone without cause before apologising sheepishly. 

The silences between them all are heavy, now.

And Angie doesn’t do well with silences. She fills them any way she can and when she can’t speak, she moves.

“I think you’ve cleaned that one twice since we sat down,” Peggy tells her, not bothering to turn from her spot at the counter. How she knows which table Angie is isn’t clear, but she’s also not wrong.

“Can’t help it,” Angie mumbles, sitting down heavily beside Daniel who is staring down at a sandwich with a gloomy expression. “I hate this not talking about the elephant in the room thing.”

A strange look passes over Peggy’s face at this, and Angie could kick herself. The _job_. She’d been talking about the job. 

“So talk about it,” Daniel tells her kindly.

“I just – ” Angie hesitates, not sure if she should take him up on their offer. “Fortuna thinks he has to wait because we’re working on finding out who has the painting, and bartering with them over prices, right?”

“Right.” Daniel finally begins on his sandwich, eschewing his cutlery in favour of just picking it up and taking a gargantuan bite.

“And he doesn’t know that Peggy and Howard sold him a fake last time?”

“It doesn’t look like it,” Daniel confirms between bites. “He’s mad they overcharged him instead.” 

“So it’s not as bleak as we’re all making it seem, right? Or am I just such a newbie to this that I’m missing something?”

“We’re on even thinner ice now, but I personally think we’ll get away with it just fine,” he says pointedly, sliding a sideways glance at Peggy, who’s staring into the depths of her glass, not really listening. 

This gives Angie a bit of faith, and she’s just about to say so when Patricio calls out, asking for a hand with something.

She helps him carry a few large boxes into the walk-in freezer round the back, and when she returns, the last thing she expects is to hear her name in a conversation between Peggy and Daniel. Angie doesn’t mean to eavesdrop behind the door separating the kitchen off from the rest of the diner but, well, who could blame her really?

“I’m just saying, Angie’s not stupid and she’s going to clue in eventually,” Daniel is saying, and Angie dares to peep through the gap between the doors.

“I never said she was stupid,” Peggy replies, not meeting Daniel’s eye. 

“But you’re acting like she’s not making a choice by being involved with us.” 

“I’m well aware she’s making a choice, Daniel,” Peggy says coldly. “And Steve made a choice too and look where it got him.” 

“This isn’t Rebirth, Peggy. And Angie isn’t Steve.”

“It’s not all that different, she’s still in harm’s way now,” Peggy protests, confirming Angie’s suspicions about the strange atmosphere between them – she’s worried about the danger of the job. “And I know she isn’t Steve. I wouldn’t want her to be Steve.” 

In the brief silence that follows, Angie can’t help but feel stung. She knows from all the stories just how much Peggy had loved Steve, but the idea that she’ll always be playing second fiddle hurts all the same. Until –

“But you still like her. _Because_ she’s somebody else,” Daniel says with a knowing, if slightly sad, smile.

Peggy takes a deep breath before, eventually, making her admission.

“Yes, I still like her. Because she’s _Angie_.” 

“You know,” Daniel begins thoughtfully, scratching his neck, “Steve wouldn’t want you to live your life like this.”

“Like what?” Peggy asks, proverbial hackles raising again. 

“Lonely,” Daniel says simply, seemingly impervious to the danger of an angry Peggy Carter. “Lonely because you’re worried you’ll lose someone else. The way I see it Peg, you’re losing out just by keeping her at arm’s length.” Daniel shrugs before checking his watch. He raises his eyebrows as he sees the time.

“Shit, I have to go,” he says, rising and reaching into his pocket for some money. 

When Peggy goes to follow suit, Daniel puts his hand on her shoulder. “No, you should stay.” He nods in the direction of the kitchen. “Think about what we’ve talked about.”

With that he’s gone, and it takes Angie a few more minutes (and a splash of cold water to the face in the staff bathroom) before she’s able to go back over to Peggy again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peggy seems oblivious to the fact that Angie had heard almost every word she and Daniel had said. And when she begins to make an obvious effort to brighten her mood, Angie can’t help but feel a little bit guilty.

She also feels guilty because Peggy stays in the diner all night, chatting to Angie in between services, clearly waiting for her to clock out. And when Angie eventually does close up the diner, Peggy joins her on her walk home.

“What, walking me home safely now are you?” Angie jokes, and for a moment she worries she’s said the wrong thing and that this will remind Peggy of Fortuna’s threats. If it does, however, Peggy doesn’t show it, just affects a slight bow and offers Angie her arm.

“M’lady?” she says playfully and Angie links their arms together.

“Why thank you. My father will be pleased I’ve found myself such a proper young lady. He’s been waiting to marry me off for such a long time.” Angie laughs as she speaks, and tries not think how close to the truth this probably is. 

Peggy laughs before freezing on the spot, stopping so suddenly that she nearly trips Angie up, given the way their arms are still looped together. 

It’s probably a good job Angie did eavesdrop on Peggy and Daniel earlier, because she knows not to be offended when she thinks she hears Peggy whisper _‘fuck it_ ’ under her breath, before planting a soft hand on either of Angie’s cheeks, and dragging Angie’s lips to her own.

For a moment, Angie stands in silent disbelief because, holy hell, _Peggy Carter is kissing her_. And sure, it’s not a complete shock after that conversation from earlier, but Angie had dreamed about this happening about a hundred different ways so she can’t help but falter for a moment. 

The last coherent thought Angie manages after that, is to make a mental note to really, seriously, sit Peggy down for a talk about preamble, because, _honestly_ , you can’t just kiss a girl like that without some serious warning. 

And  _boy_ , was Peggy kissing her.

Peggy kisses Angie like she’s air, like Peggy needs all of her, all at once just to stay alive.

In fact, Peggy Carter kisses just as Angie would expect; like she knows exactly what she wants and she’s about to go out and get it. Angie feels breathless by the time Peggy pulls back, suddenly, as though she’s only just realised what’s happening.

Peggy looks as though she might apologise but, honestly, Angie only wants to kiss her again, so she fists both hands in Peggy’s sweater and pulls her back in. They’re both more prepared this time, and Angie reciprocates fully, dragging Peggy’s bottom lip between her teeth as Peggy’s hands skim gently up and down Angie’s back.

“Hey, Peggy,” Angie gasps, eventually breaking the kiss and touching their foreheads together. “Isn’t your apartment nearby?” 

“Yes, just a couple of blocks away,” Peggy murmurs, nuzzling Angie’s nose with her own. “Why, would you like to come back for a nightcap?”

For just a moment, Angie allows herself to feel surprised. It’s a terrible line to be sure, and Peggy’s tone is certainly flirtatious, enough so that her voice lilts playfully at the end of the sentence. But mostly, Peggy sounds unsure, like she’s genuinely asking what Angie wants. Peggy sounds like she’s not aware that Angie would say ‘yes’ in a heartbeat.

Drawing back just enough to look in Peggy’s eyes, Angie finds herself met with an expression she isn’t quite prepared for, one that Angie thinks has a name neither of them are probably willing to articulate, especially not right now.

So Angie leans forward, brushing her lips softly against Peggy’s before saying, instead, “I’d love one.”  


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that this is basically the chapter which earns the fic its rating - please be advised in advance of, y'know, sexual content. a bit of the sex. the do. the frickle frackle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the feedback on the last chapter - I really appreciate it!
> 
> I hope this chapter makes up for stringing out the slow-burn for so long.
> 
> I also just wanted to say that I almost didn't include this chapter, because I was worried a focus on Angie and Peggy's, er, first night together might be sort of jarring in the face of the whole team!fic, everyone/everyone vibe. However, as we're nearing the end of the fic, I felt that the narrative needed a switch up and I thought this made a decent interlude. That being said, I'm still a bit worried this chapter sticks out like a sore thumb, and for all the _wrong_ reasons.
> 
> So, I'd love to know what you think either way wrt to my thoughts above though, it really does help me improve!! Also I get hella fuckin nervous writing sex scenes so yeah. There's that too. Please put my mind at ease if you're that way inclined.
> 
> Also, as ever, thanks so much for reading and you're always most welcome to come chat with me (about this fic, these characters or honestly just anything) on tumblr, i'm natasharommanoff!

Never in New York City history has it taken two people longer to walk five blocks, but that’s the only possible outcome when one person constantly drags the other into secluded corners and kisses them senseless.

Angie’s a lady, so she won’t say who’s doing the dragging and the kissing, but they were born in London, if you catch her drift.

When they do finally get there, they burst into Peggy’s apartment like they’re in the movies, falling through the doorway together, lip-locked as Peggy struggles to retrieve her key and kick the door shut behind her.

Despite the enticing sight that is Peggy Carter standing before her, breathless and panting, her hair falling loose from her ponytail and her clothes askew, Angie has to take a moment to appreciate Peggy’s apartment.

She gives a low whistle as she turns one-eighty, taking in a lavishly furnished sitting room; multiple plush, cream sofas, a huge television, and a glass-topped dining table that was flanked by a set of ornate-looking chairs. Not to mention that all of this was visible, even in the dead of night, because the two exterior walls were comprised entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows, letting in a great deal of light along with an incredible view of the city’s skyline. 

One month’s rent in this place probably costs more than Angie earns at the diner in a year.

“Jeez English, nice place.”

“Mmm,” Peggy agrees disinterestedly, coming to stand behind Angie, snaking her hands around her waist.

“Clearly…” Peggy murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of Angie’s neck before leaving a very deliberate pause, “…crime pays,” Peggy whispers eventually, her lips sinfully close to Angie’s ear. 

Angie shivers and takes a steadying breath, knowing as she does that it’s futile, it’s too late. She’s absolutely done for. There’s no way she’s making it out of this alive.

Peggy’s hands skate across Angie’s stomach, fiddling with the bottom seam of her shirt, her fingers occasionally dipping underneath to stroke at the soft skin of Angie’s belly. Once Peggy pauses in peppering kisses to the side of Angie’s throat, Angie guides Peggy’s hands to grip at the hem of her shirt. 

When Angie raises her arms, Peggy steps back a little, slowly removing Angie’s top inch by inch, before discarding it carelessly behind them. She slides her hands across the pale skin of Angie’s shoulders, silently urging her to turn around, moving in for another kiss as soon as they’re facing each other again.

In spite of how long it has taken them, in spite of the doubts, the yearning, and the near-misses, neither of them senses the urgency they’d both privately imagined they’d feel at this moment. Right now, there’s no con to worry about, no fear of failure; in fact the whole damned criminal underworld doesn’t exist anymore – there’s no space for any of it in amongst their touches; all impossibly slow and gentle. Angie is determined to revel in every velvet-soft brush of Peggy’s lips, along with every tiny sigh that escapes from between them.

Around them, the room feels so peaceful that it’s like they’re under some form of spell, something so calm and quiet that neither of them wants to risk shattering it. They are finally caught in the moment after the storm has passed by. This is the peace that follows, the ground damp and the air alive with the smell of summer rain.

A little while later – neither of them really knows how long – Angie pulls back to grip at Peggy’s jumper, removing it with the thin shirt she is wearing underneath. Angie dips forward quickly to kiss down Peggy’s throat, dragging her tongue over Peggy’s pulse point. As Angie’s lips journey downward, she makes short work of Peggy’s bra, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses on Peggy’s breasts and Peggy moans slightly, her fingers tangling in Angie’s hair, pressing firmly but pleasantly into Angie’s scalp.

Angie comes back up eventually and as, finally, Peggy reaches round Angie and unclips her bra to drag it away from Angie’s body, there's something especially delicious in feeling their bare breasts coming together. Angie gasps at the sensation, slipping her tongue between Peggy's lips, her mouth hot and insistent.

Their hands wander far too much to shed the rest of their clothes very quickly, as they both stop to explore new hills and valleys of soft flesh every time it appears. Peggy's mouth slides artlessly across Angie's jaw when Angie slips her hands over the swell of Peggy's ass, skirting underneath Peggy's underwear and squeezing lightly. A moment later, Angie tosses her head back with a deep, throaty moan when Peggy slides Angie’s panties aside and dips a finger into the slick heat between Angie's legs.

Eventually, they're both finally nude, and Peggy, realising that they're still standing upright in her living room, guides Angie backwards into her bedroom and towards the bed, supporting her head and shoulders as she softly urges Angie onto the white bedspread, the cotton whispering under their bodies.

The calm silence of Peggy's apartment is, after a time, punctuated by soft sighs and keening moans as Peggy finds herself kneeling above Angie, her hips rolling as she rides Angie's fingers. 

Angie's other hand alternates between supporting her own wrist and tracing patterns over Peggy's stomach, or kneading firmly at her breasts.

Working off the sound of Peggy's breathy moans, Angie gradually circles her thumb faster round Peggy's clit and, as Peggy begins to flutter round her fingers, Angie urges her to her release with words whispered soft as gossamer.

"Come on babydoll. Come on let go, for me, for me, for me, come on for me..."

It only takes a few minutes more before the rhythm of Peggy's hips stutters, falling out of time with Angie's hand. Peggy's back arches as she comes quietly, with one gentle cry of Angie's name.

After a moment Angie withdraws her hand, suckling on sticky fingers as Peggy moves to rest her forehead briefly against Angie's belly while she catches her breath.

When her breathing is more controlled, Peggy cranes up to kiss Angie a few times, murmuring appreciatively against her lips before the kisses grow thicker and louder and Peggy draws her tongue against Angie's.

Peggy takes her time, touching her lips to every part of Angie's body before dragging them along the soft skin of Angie's inner thighs. As she moves upwards towards Angie's centre, Peggy sucks on Angie's thighs a little harder, then harder still, acting on a hunch until Angie inhales sharply and Peggy goes to draw back, thinking that she's guessed wrong and ready to apologise.

In an instant, though, Angie's hand is tangled in Peggy's hair, guiding her mouth back to where it was.

"Do it again,' Angie gasps, voice shaky. 

So she does. And then again. And again. 

Careful not to push too far, Peggy dots tiny purple hickeys at the top of Angie's inner thighs until Angie is a squirming mess, arching her back off the bed and unconsciously drawing her knees further apart. 

Finally, _finally_ ,  Peggy moves her lips to where Angie really wants them, mouthing softly at the juncture between Angie's legs, extracting a loud, wordless cry from Angie when Peggy’s tongue begins exploring. 

It takes them a few moments but Peggy quickly works out a rhythm before experimentally pressing a finger into Angie, finding herself rewarded with a delicious, high pitched shout.

As Peggy adds another finger, her free hand anchors to Angie's hip, trying to still Angie's movements slightly. It's clearly a losing battle, however, when Peggy hums with her tongue against Angie's clit and Angie throws a leg over Peggy's shoulder, her heel moving ceaselessly over Peggy's back.

Angie comes undone a moment later, crying Peggy's name on repeat as she pulses against Peggy's tongue. 

Peggy eventually pulls away to wipe her face against the back of her hand before resting her cheek on Angie’s thigh, waiting for her to regain herself and watching, with a great deal of interest, as Angie’s chest heaves in time with her breathing.  


Angie has one arm slung across her face, covering her eyes, and eventually she peeks underneath, looking down at Peggy and meeting her eye. 

“Oh my God,” she breathes, and Peggy laughs her approval softly, dropping a single, chaste kiss to Angie’s stomach before hauling herself up the bed with a groan.

Angie moans when Peggy kisses her and she tastes herself on Peggy’s tongue, before drawing back almost wistfully, her eyes still closed and a sleepy smile on her face as she burrows into the pillows.

“Can I stay?” Angie whispers sweetly, already half asleep and likely completely unaware of what she’s actually saying. Peggy holds in a laugh as she wrestles the duvet out from beneath their bodies, before covering them both up.

“Of course you can, sweetheart,” Peggy replies nonetheless, snuggling into the covers, eyes impossibly heavy.

Cuddled close to Angie, one of Peggy's last coherent thoughts before she drifts off to sleep is that maybe she'll teach Howard a lesson tomorrow and be the one who fails to turn up to a job brief on time, too occupied in bed with a beautiful, wonderful woman.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angie wakes from a deep sleep in a panic, half-forgetting where she is, why she’s there, and, importantly, why she has no clothes on. It all comes back to her quickly, however, because she isn’t about to forget a night like that in a hurry, not when Peggy Carter had buried her face between Angie’s thighs like that. Twice. And then once again an hour or two later. 

The bed beside her is empty but warm, and she strains her ears, listening for signs of life in Peggy’s apartment.

She is met with silence, but she can certainly smell something that makes her stomach growl. She sits up, and is half out bed before she realises she has no idea where her clothes are. She casts about awkwardly for a moment or two, not keen to necessarily wander round Peggy's apartment totally naked, and eventually settles on borrowing the bathroom hanging on the door. A moment later and she feels a strange, absurd heat rise to her cheeks as she crosses the living room and spots two bras, and numerous other articles of clothing, scattered across the room. The sensation persists as Angie stands in the doorway to the kitchen, feeling oddly self-conscious as she watches Peggy at the stove in a yellow jumper and faded black shorts, humming tunelessly to herself as she works.

“Hey,” Angie announces herself eventually and Peggy turns.

“Hey.” Peggy’s smile is surprisingly shy. “Did you sleep alright?” she asks unnecessarily, as if sleeping had been the main purpose of them sharing a bed last night. “You looked peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay, you could have.” They share a significant look before Angie remembers she’s wearing Peggy’s robe. “Sorry,” she gestures at the silk, “I couldn’t find my clothes when I woke up. I see now that they’re decorating your living room.” 

Peggy snorts slightly. “Don’t worry, it looks good on you.” She directs her attention to whatever’s on the stove for a second before clearing her throat nervously. “I, uh, I’d hoped you would want to stay for breakfast.”

“Course,” Angie agrees quickly, a smile breaking onto her face without warning. “Can I use your bathroom first? Should probably try and freshen up a little.” 

“Sure,” Peggy points the door out to Angie. “If you’re not feeling the robe, go ahead and look through my clothes, take whatever you want. There’s a walk-in room, it’s the door in the bedroom.” 

“Thanks,  I won’t take too long.” 

“Take all the time you want. I always have a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, feel free to use it if you’d like.”

Peggy’s ‘wardrobe’ is enormous, and Angie spends far too long rifling through all the designer-wear, especially the shoes. For a brief moment, she’s tempted to try and find something which will make her look more presentable, but then she shrugs and fishes an old cardigan off a shelf. Given that Peggy had just seen Angie naked as the day she was born, there wasn’t exactly much left to be shy about.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What’s for breakfast?” Angie asks when she reappears. “It smells great, whatever it is.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Peggy casts an appraising, appreciative look at Angie, standing there in Peggy's old, worn cardigan, t-shirt, and pale pink panties.

"Just pancakes,” Peggy replies, tone oddly heavy.

While Peggy finishes cooking, Angie darts from cupboard to cupboard fishing out anything which might come in handy. In the end, she takes a strange combination of fruits, chocolate spread, and honey into the main room with her, promising to set up and also clear their clothes away. 

When Peggy brings the plates through, however, she finds Angie not at the table as she’d expected, but sat on a plush cushion on the floor. She’d laid the breakfast things out on a tablecloth she must have fished out from under one of the coffee tables, pushed up against the tall windows, presumably so that she could have a better view of the city beneath them. She’d opened the glass door that lead onto the balcony too, just enough that her hair flutters in the breeze.

"Picnic?" Angie asks hopefully over her shoulder, her smile seeming to Peggy to be infinitely brighter than the sun that is fast appearing through the weak morning clouds. 

Peggy nods mutely, because there's nothing she can say that can make the scene before her even remotely more beautiful, so she brings the pancakes over without a word, settling herself beside Angie on the cushion that lay waiting for her. 

They share their breakfast and watch as the sun rises like fire; red and pink and orange beams scattering themselves through the clouds like an old Roman mosaic.

Occasionally, amid bites of pancake or sips of juice, they play with each other's hands, winding their fingers over and over and around until they find themselves in some strange, impromptu competition. 

Laughing, Angie lightly throws a small handful of blueberries at Peggy when she 'beats' her, though that amounts to no more than Peggy getting bored and trapping both of Angie's hands in her own. 

As the blueberries skitter across the floor, Peggy pulls Angie in close for a kiss that tastes of chocolate and oranges.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Fulfilling Peggy’s prophecy from the night before, neither of them makes a move to leave the apartment and instead they while away the time just talking, jazz music playing quietly in the background.

In the soft afternoon light, they have sex by the faux fireplace without bothering to draw the blinds, high up enough that it can remain a secret between them and the pale clouds that drift lazily by.

Once they’re both breathless and sated, Peggy drifts up Angie's body from where she'd laid between her legs, propping her head just below Angie's breasts, her hips settling in the cradle of Angie's thighs.

Peggy presses kisses to Angie's ribs and nuzzles the soft skin between her breasts until she half falls asleep. As Peggy dozes, Angie sweeps gentle fingers through her hair, inventing stories out of the shapes of certain clouds in a soft whisper.

Drowsy and warm in the rays of the spring sun, Peggy tries to remember a time she ever felt so content. She can’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


After a slow, luxurious shower that evening, they finally make their way to Howard's house.

"You guys are late," Howard remarks when they invite themselves inside and find everyone else already there, but Peggy simply nods at him slightly.

"Yes."

He’s hardly in a position to protest, given that he’s almost always late to everything.

“We can’t have much left to plan,” Angie points out as she settles down in her usual spot on one of the couches. Peggy joins her, sitting close.  

“Not really. The painting was delivered a few hours ago, it’s close to flawless,” Jarvis informs them, clearly rather appreciative of the good work Steve’s friend had done.

“Fortuna wants a covert exchange,” Howard adds, looking directly at Peggy with a near-indiscernible expression on his face.

“It’s not ideal,” Peggy admits, “but I don’t really see that we have much choice. Let’s keep Fortuna thinking he’s calling all the shots for now.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one who’ll have to hand a thug a fake painting in some back alley.”

“Literally a back alley?” Angie asks. 

“Yes, not too far from the diner as it happens,” Jarvis replies conversationally and Howard flashes him a glare. 

“If we can get back to the part where I’m putting myself in potentially mortal peril,” he grumbles.

“Don’t be overdramatic,” Peggy chides him gently. “You’ll break a few bones at most, that’s hardly mortal peril.”

 “Gee, _thanks_ Peg.”

“I do think it’s wise for us to have some kind of contingency plan, just in case there is trouble” Daniel points out from an armchair opposite Angie.

“If there’s trouble surely one of us calls the police?” Angie says, which earns a cold laugh from Dottie. Angie casts her eyes slowly across the room to her, schooling her features into the most disdainful expression she can manage.

“A group of con artists don’t really want contact with the police.”

“If it’s between prison and death I know what I’ll choose thanks,” Angie shoots back testily.

“Don’t expect me to stick around if you lose your head and call the police in.”

“Peg?” Daniel cuts in before the exchange between Dottie and Angie can escalate. 

It’s clear from Peggy’s expression that she’s deeply torn. Angie’s mind darts to her story about Steve, and she knows on pure instinct that Peggy would risk anything over the life of another team member.

“Howard makes the exchange, he’s the only one who’s had contact with Fortuna so it’s the most logical option,” Peggy says decisively and turns directly to Howard. “You’ll have to pretend to haggle, but ultimately I couldn’t care less what amount of money you take, just make the deal and get yourself out. The rest of us will be standing by around the area, there’s not much we can do if things don’t go to plan, but you can bet Fortuna won’t come alone, so we shouldn’t risk it either.”

This earns a general buzz of assent, and they go on planning into the night, batting ideas back and forth without actually revising Peggy’s plan a great deal, until Jarvis checks his watch and announces the time with a stretch and a yawn. 

“It’s too late to worry about getting taxis to get home,” Howard tells them, rising quickly and failing spectacularly at looking casual and nonchalant about their plans. “There are plenty of guest rooms about, take one each if you want.”

They murmur their thanks and disperse, and Angie is somewhat shocked that everyone elects to stay. She and Peggy are the last to head off and, for the first time, Angie isn’t sure exactly where she stands.

She _thinks_ that she and Peggy were both on the same page about what the night before had meant, but they hadn’t really discussed it and so Angie can’t truly be totally sure that Peggy hadn’t just been in it for a night (and then a large proportion of a day) of what had been, honestly, _amazing_ sex. 

She needn’t have worried however, as Peggy leads the way upstairs – far more familiar with Howard’s homes than Angie – and checks that everyone else is firmly shut away in their rooms, before slipping her hand into Angie’s and pulling her into the nearest bedroom, locking the door behind them.

 

 

 

 

  
  


 

 

Peggy and Angie give themselves away the next morning when they arrive downstairs together, both their hair dripping wet, to find they are the last to rise. 

Without looking up from his eggs, Howard points out mock-innocently that only three of the guest bedroom doors had been closed when he got up that morning. 

The furtive, guilty look the two of them share over the orange juice is enough to have Howard throwing his head back and laughing triumphantly as if he'd somehow engineered this himself. 

Daniel looks slightly uncomfortable at Howard's reaction, Jarvis smiles gently but sincerely at them both, and, unless Angie is very much mistaken, Dottie looks rather surly, and mightily unimpressed as she stabs forcefully at the food on her plate.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything that could go wrong, does go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter guys! Sorry for the delay with this one, and thank you so much for sticking with this story!!
> 
> (I'd appreciate hearing what you think as ever!)

In a moment of what can only be classed as utterly spectacular naivety, Angie actually lets herself believe that everything is going to be completely okay. 

Though, to be fair, that’s because it is. For a while, at any rate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If her heart hadn’t been beating so hard in her chest it was probably visible through her shirt for pretty much the entire day, Angie might have allowed herself a moment to consider how much this was all like some ridiculous action movie.

They don’t want to risk scoping out the spot early, just in case Fortuna has stationed men there to wait for them, so they spend the whole morning and most of the afternoon at Howard’s mansion. No one really speaks, though Peggy and Daniel sit in one of the (many) living rooms with the television on. They turn the volume down so low it’s barely audible, and neither of them bothers watching it anyway.

Angie takes the opportunity to snoop round the place, figuring that Howard probably won’t care in the slightest if she pokes through some old family heirlooms or runs her fingers along the old gilt frames of what are no doubt priceless pieces of art.

She wonders idly, as she tries to decipher the signature in the bottom corner of a countryside landscape, whether they couldn’t have sold Fortuna one of these pieces, rather than going to all the effort of having another person paint something. Howard’s made it perfectly clear that he’s not attached to most of the stuff littered around his homes, which strikes Angie as more than slightly absurd. She loves a bit of impulse retail therapy as much as the next person, but Howard takes it to a whole new level. 

There’s a deep and meaningful corner of her that wants to explain Howard’s love of all things extravagant with psychology. Maybe he’s filling some form of emotional emptiness with material _things_ rather than addressing the root cause of the emptiness of the first place.

Then again, there’s a superficial part of her that thinks, _it’s probably at least partly to impress girls as well, though._

Angie figures that this probably isn’t the time to give voice to any of these thoughts either way.

On her second circuit of the ground floor, she passes by the kitchen and catches Jarvis, cheek smeared with flower, grappling with a rolling pin.

“Something to pass the time?” she asks gently, leaning against the doorframe. 

Jarvis pauses, slightly out of breath. “Something like that.” 

“What are you making?” she asks, curious, as she walks slowly over to the kitchen island.

“Plum and apple pie,” he replies, scattering liberal amounts of flour over the black marble of the counter. 

“And you make your own pastry too?” Angie questions, half playful, half incredulous. 

He merely raises an eyebrow at her, as though the response is obvious because of course Edwin Jarvis doesn't use the store-bought stuff.

“Do you mind if I stay?” Angie asks, hoisting herself onto a free, clean counter.

“Not at all,” Jarvis tells her gently with a small, knowing smile.

Angie genuinely loves each and every member of their strange little group – well, _almost_ everyone – but she finds an odd comfort in being around Jarvis in these moments. For all his little quirks, as well as his tendency to panic in very specific situations, he has a strangely serene presence at times like this. The rest of the group were always visibly tense, drifting past each other like ships; quietly and lost to themselves. Jarvis, however, looked for something to do that would focus his nerves, and it was strangely soothing to soak in his quiet concentration.

Not to mention that at times like this, Angie kinda likes knowing she’s not the only one who’s a complete newbie to this whole thing, with absolutely no idea what’s going on.

Though in this case, it’s highly possible they _all_ have no idea what they’re doing…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She leaves Jarvis half an hour later, the pie baking in the oven and filling the whole kitchen with smells so delicious Angie almost forgets they have to do an art exchange with a potentially homicidal maniac in a few hours. _Almost_.

“Sure, leave to avoid washing up duty!” Jarvis calls playfully over his shoulder and Angie is sure to shout,

“Use the damn dishwasher for once!” by way of reply.

“Miss Martinelli, I _am_ – ”

“– the dishwasher in this house, I _know_. We all know.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She finds Peggy out in the garden standing, arms crossed tightly and completely lost in thought, beside a well-pruned rose bush. Clearly, Howard hired a gardener. (Or maybe Jarvis could add ‘green-fingered’ to his list of talents). 

“Hey,” Peggy says quietly as Angie approaches, and it’s honestly really infuriating how she does that without even turning around. 

“It’s gonna be okay you know,” Angie tells her once they’re facing each other, managing to sound far more confident than she feels. She’s pretty sure Peggy sees right through it, but it wins a smile so that’s good enough for Angie.

“I hope so,” Peggy murmurs, taking a step closer and running her hands slowly over Angie’s biceps. It draws a small, involuntary shiver from Angie, who lets out a tiny hum of contentment.  

Peggy leans forward and, very softly, kisses Angie, only for them to draw apart a moment later when they hear a noise behind them.

It’s a testament to how tense he is that Howard doesn’t tease them. 

“Peg, I think it’s time we start heading off.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They stagger their arrival to the diner so as not to arouse suspicion, spending an hour assembled there together, passing time in terse, unpleasant silence.

Sat beside Angie, Peggy involuntarily bounces her knee slightly, until Angie subtly drops a hand to Peggy’s thigh, hoping the weight and warmth of it will do something to ground Peggy in the present. It seems to help for a while, but Angie thinks she can physically see the moment when the ghosts of the past catch up with Peggy. 

Just as the sun begins sinking to the horizon, casting long shadows and painting everything such a deep orange it seems as though the world is on fire, Howard rises. He doesn’t say anything, just tucks the picture under his arm and makes his way to the main doors. Before he leaves, he chances a glance over his shoulder, sharing a look with Peggy that makes Angie’s stomach jump to her throat.

Of course, Angie has known from the very start how frightened everyone has been of this job, but Howard’s expression is made of nothing less than pure terror, while Peggy looks achingly sad, and Angie feels the last of her optimism desert her completely. 

There’s not much time to think on it, however, as Howard’s disappearance is their cue to leave round the back. The air outside is sticky and close, and it feels as though they’re breathing in cotton wool. 

“Okay,” Peggy begins in a low voice, and they gather instinctively in a huddle. “We’ve been through this, we all know what we’re doing. We split up now, and go to our prearranged vantage points. Communication via text or phone, but for the love of god, keep them on silent. If all goes well, we’re to meet behind the bar along the street, okay?”

There’s a flurry of nods and murmurs before Peggy concludes, her jaw painfully tense, “ _take care of yourselves._ And each other,” she directs this last at Daniel, who gives a long, slow blink in affirmation. 

They’d already agreed that Daniel, Dottie, and Jarvis would form one group, while Peggy and Angie would form another. 

Angie would be lying if she said that she hadn’t, at the time, felt an absurd thrill at the plan, like the kid who’s picked first for the baseball team. The rational part of her, however, knows that Peggy and Daniel had arranged it this way, so that she and Jarvis were both with more experienced group members. It felt a little like being babysat, but, with what happened to Steve, Angie can understand why Peggy is keeping her close.

Angie follows, lost in these thoughts, a step or two behind as Peggy weaves her way through the warren of back alleys, keeping to the shadows.

“I feel like we should have radios,” she whispers to Peggy when they finally come to a stop, “or those little things in our ears like in spy movies”. 

“They’d certainly be more efficient,” Peggy concedes quietly, briefly flashing her phone at Angie, who has just long enough to skim a text from Howard, confirming he’s in position and that Fortuna is keeping him waiting.

Peggy pockets her phone again, before turning her attention back to Angie.

“I’m sorry,” Peggy says heavily, looking at Angie with an odd expression. 

“You should be, this is a terrible second date,” Angie jokes, toeing at an old apple core, and Peggy snorts quietly.

“I meant – ”

“I know what you meant English. And you never forced me into this. I joined because I want to and,” Angie cranes over to kiss Peggy’s cheek, “I don’t regret it.”

Peggy gives her a tight smile, her whole body so on edge that it looks more like a grimace, but Angie appreciates the effort nonetheless. 

“So now we wait right?” Angie asks, speaking largely for speaking’s sake.

“Yes. Now we wait”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s scarcely a chance that the city is ever going to be close to quiet, but everything is strangely muted back here, as if even the sounds of New York were stuck in the thick summer air. It would be serene, if they weren’t standing in a dingy back alley, filled with trash that was slowly rotting in the oppressive heat. Also it would have been nice if it hadn’t started raining while they were stood out there, thunder rumbling somewhere way off in the distance. 

The weather had drained the last of the light from the day, and it was strangely dim for the time so that Angie finds she already has to squint through the gloom, not that there’s much of anything to see. She's convinced she saw a rat earlier though, and she wants to be ready to aim a swift kick at the thing if it comes back. 

Peggy hasn’t moved at all since their earlier conversation, standing stock-still with her shoulders squared for however long they’d actually been out there. Which, Angie can’t help but think, is far longer than it should take for two men to exchange a painting. But Peggy hasn’t said anything about this yet, so Angie sure isn’t about to bring it up.

The stillness had become a strangely pleasant constant despite Angie’s nervousness, so she can be excused for jumping and barely stifling a startled yelp when Peggy’s arm darts out without any warning, pulling her phone from her back pocket at lightning speed.

“ _Jesus_ ”, Angie mutters to herself, clutching at her chest.

“Sorry,” Peggy murmurs absently, face lit up by the screen of her phone. Actually, the way the light casts shadows from that angle is pretty nice _and this is not the time_. “It’s Howard,” Peggy supplies. “He’s done the swap, his exit route is going to bring him this way, so I’m going to tell him we’ll meet him here”.

And so, once again, they wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Peggy,” Angie begins tentatively and, Christ, she does _not_ want to say this but...

“I know,” Peggy says, voice weak. “It’s been twenty minutes. I _know_.”

“So what do we d– ”

Whatever answer Peggy might have had in mind, it becomes inconsequential as the sounds of cries become suddenly audible, not too far in the distance, and Peggy instantly goes hurtling in their direction.  

“No! You stay here!” she calls back at Angie, who is already hot on her heels.

“You can’t tell me to wait in the bleachers while you go put yourself in danger, Peggy!” Angie shouts back. She understands, she really does, but Peggy can’t coddle her because of what happened in the past.

Peggy skids to a halt so fast Angie’s surprised there aren’t accompanying sound effects. Angie is unfortunately close behind and practically barrels into her, drawing back at the last moment. Peggy plants a hand on either of Angie’s arms, meeting her eye with a look so intense that Angie finds it hard not to look away. She feels laid bare, more so in that instant than she did at any point over the last two nights.

Somewhere behind Peggy, the sounds of a struggle become even clearer.

“Angie, _please_. I know how it sounds, trust me, I really do. But I’m begging you, I can’t do this again. Please.”

Angie finds herself struggling for words, and there’s not really much she can say when Peggy’s looking at her like _that_ , like Angie is all that matters in the universe.

“Okay,” Angie whispers, feeling incredibly guilty even as she does so. She has no intention of hanging behind, but she doesn’t want Peggy to feel like she has to watch out for her too, on top of feeling responsible for everyone else.

“Thank you,” Peggy says (which only adds to the guilt) before stealing a quick kiss and one last long, burning glance at Angie, before sprinting away.

Angie leaves it as long as she dares before following the route Peggy took, hoping that she’ll be able to find the others quickly enough to help.

There’s little chance of her going the wrong way, however. Whatever’s happening, it’s happening at such a volume that Angie is certain the police will have been called by now, which is the last thing they all need.

She rounds one final corner, thinking that if she’s still alive in the morning she’s going to buy a gym membership, because she’s embarrassingly breathless, and finds a full-blown fight going on in front of her. It’s impossible to tell what went wrong, or how exactly it all started, but Fortuna had clearly set his men on them and, well, there’s a reason they call these types of people ‘hired muscle’. There were six guys there, and they were all disturbingly huge.  

Angie spots Howard first. He's sporting a nasty graze on his cheek and the beginnings of an impressive black eye, and is attempting to help Daniel subdue a man who had to be pushing seven feet tall, so strong he was practically a wall of pure muscle.

To their left Dottie appears to be holding her own disconcertingly well against one man, and Angie shudders at her expression. Dottie is clearly having the time of her life, and her smile only grows wider as she twists the man’s arm behind his back. Even from ten feet away, Angie hears it crack as it pops out at the shoulder.

Somewhere behind that particular scene, it appears that Jarvis is actually trying to reason with one of the men. Angie can’t really blame him, it’s not like either of them have the first clue how to hold their own in a fight like this. Sure, Angie’s father had taught her how to throw a punch (and even how to shoot a gun), but it’s somewhat easier away from the threat of the violent, painful death that Fortuna’s men threaten.

And in spite of all this, it seems that Angie now lives her life in a state of awe over one Peggy Carter. Her eyes are instantly drawn to the spot where Peggy is currently dealing with not one, but two, of these guys. Peggy does this neat little feint, using her elbow to drive the first of the men into one of the brick walls and Angie feels her eyes widen. With that man briefly dazed, Peggy sets her sights on the other, launching the nearest missile (the lid of an old, silver trash can) at his face with savage strength. When she draws back, there’s blood spurting from the man’s nose in a veritable torrent, dripping sickeningly down his chin. Peggy slams the lid forward again, aiming a swift kick at man two’s groin for good measure. Peggy draws back, holding the trash can lid across her body like a strange shield, before the first man receives the same treatment as his friend, eventually buckling under Peggy’s assault.

Angie is fully aware of the whole mortal peril aspect of this situation but _seriously_. What the _hell_? Peggy just beat the living shit out of two guys without so much as breaking a sweat and Angie has the burning desire to know just where Peggy learnt to do that. Did she take some seriously in-depth self-defence classes? Was she in the goddamn army? _Shit_. Maybe she was secretly a spy...

There are so many exciting possibilities for Angie to consider, but they all come at _entirely_ the wrong moment as a man with a faded, blotchy snake tattoo on his neck sets his sights on her, even in her pitiful state, bringing up the rear.

In her periphery, Angie sees Howard and Daniel finally overwhelm their opponent, while Dottie lends a much-needed hand to Jarvis. There aren’t many of Fortuna’s men left standing to back up snake tattoo guy, and Angie knows a last ditch attempt to salvage a situation when she sees one.

The guy runs at her at full pelt, an alarming cry rumbling in his throat, and she has no idea what she’s going to do. Suddenly she understands that her presence is likely to be more of a hindrance than a help. Even if she could punch this guy without breaking every bone in her hand, he’s so tall she’d be striking out at his chest, which looked as though it was composed entirely of bone, not skin and tissue. He'd barely even feel it.  

So, she does the only thing she can think of. She hovers, fronting him out, eventually squinting her eyes half-shut in horror, as she wings off a prayer to any deity that might be listening.

Between her eyelashes she sees the man gaining on her, snake tattoo pulsing. In three, two, one…she takes a singular, enormous step to the left.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snake Tattoo hits the wall behind her headfirst, with a sickening crunch, going down like a ton of bricks.

The commotion causes the rest of the team, now completely divested of Fortuna’s men, to all look in Angie’s direction.

Peggy catches sight of her and runs over instantly, looking unexpectedly tearful.

“Angie! What the _hell_?!”

Angie flashes Peggy a sheepish smile but Peggy just grins at her, breathless and exhilarated. She slings an arm round Angie’s shoulders, and presses a kiss to Angie’s cheek.

“So, you don’t hate me then?”

“Hate? No, never,” Peggy laughs. “I’m really super angry at you, but I don’t hate you. In fact, I love you an absurd amount right now.”

The words hit Angie somewhere in her chest, striking her in the best way possible. She feels the whole moment – warm cheeks; deep breaths; and a big, happy-to-be-alive smile and all – so acutely that time seems to slow down. She wants to grasp onto those words, and this feeling lighting up like a candle inside of her, with both hands and never let go.

She’s so wrapped up in it, so starry-eyed, that she doesn’t notice the way Peggy glances suddenly over their shoulders, feels only the way her hands shift quickly on Angie’s back. For a moment, she thinks she’s about to be pulled into an embrace, but then Peggy’s grip goes too hard, her fingers too strong as they grip at Angie’s shoulder.

She goes to complain, and finds herself shoved roughly against the sharp stone of a nearby granite wall.

“English, this probably isn’t the ti– ” 

There’s a sudden crack, loud and high enough that it rings painfully in Angie’s ears, and, deep down, she knows what has happened before she even sees the evidence.

Under the sickly, yellow light of a nearby streetlamp, the red swirls that spread quickly across Peggy’s shirt seem even more unnatural, even more nightmareish and wrong.

The slight figure of Vincent Fortuna looms in the distance and all hell breaks loose around them as the rest of the team launch themselves at him, but Angie’s eyes dart straight back to Peggy as, pained and winded, she falls heavily onto both knees, still gripping loosely at Angie’s shirt.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the final chapter!! I hadn't really planned this one out, I knew what was happening up until the previous chapter, but hadn't decided which way it was gonna go until I sat down to write. Hopefully you'll all think I made the right decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I know this comes only a day after the last chapter, but I woke up with the first half of the chapter in my head and, upon asking some of you lovely folks on tumblr, was told to end any cliffhanger suffering early!

_Four months later_

 

 

It’s getting dark already, which means it is also getting colder. The choice of timing, however, is completely deliberate.

It’s practically deserted here now.

Besides, Angie hardly even notices the cold under the circumstances. She draws one hand from her jacket pocket, firmly swaddled in a thick woollen glove and somehow still icy cold, and runs the tips of her fingers along the fresh grey marble to her right.

The snow that lines the top of the stone dislodges, falling to the ground in heavy, wet clumps. 

This is not the one she seeks, however, and she moves on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Peggy? Peg?” Angie crouches beside her, kneeling in goodness knows what to try and hold Peggy in a more comfortable position._

_“S’okay. M fine,” Peggy mumbles, eyes already distant and hazy. She’s somehow still on her knees, but her body seems be getting heavier as Angie tries – and fails – to keep her upright. In the end they wind up with her slumped on the ground, shoulders and torso cradled tightly against Angie’s chest._

_Angie doesn’t have the first clue what she’s doing, only that it has to be the right thing, it_ has _to be, because Peggy isn’t going to die. Not here, not now, and certainly not like this. Angie tries to cover the wound, tries to will the blood back into Peggy’s body._

_But Peggy’s drifting already, barely conscious until Angie shouts her name loudly enough to jerk her awake. She holds on valiantly for a minute or two every time, but then she slides away again._

_“Peggy, come_ on! _Please.” Angie is frustrated, and desperate, and she’s so. fucking. scared._

_“Mmph.” Peggy’s head jerks up quickly, as it does every time Angie tries to rouse her. “Angie?”_

_“It’s okay, I got you. Save your energy you’re gonna be okay, Peg.”_

_“Are you_ _…_ _? Are you okay? Did he get you? Tried to stop him getting you_ _…_ _  
_

_The tears sear too hot on her face, and her throat is too tight to say any of the things she wants to say. Besides, Peggy is already gone again._

_Jarvis peels away from the skirmish with Fortuna, and it seems so far removed from Angie that it feels part of a different lifetime._

_“Have you called an ambulance?” he asks urgently as he arrives at Angie’s side, but it feels as though she’s hearing him from underwater. She can’t quite focus on his words until_ _…_

_“Angie! Have you called an ambulance?”_

_“N- I’ll. I’ll do it. Now. I’ll – ”_

_She fumbles with her phone, her fingers leaving a sticky red streak all the way across the screen._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At times, Angie had been a surprisingly anxious child. She spent an entire year obsessively worrying that her whole family was going to be killed somehow, and was more or less convinced that if she only did certain things in the same order every day, said her prayers in exactly the right way at exactly the right time, then she could save them. 

And if she didn’t do those things, well…

She’d long forgotten that scared little girl but on that night, with Peggy bleeding out underneath her fingers, she was there again, crying into her pillow late at night and begging whoever was out there to just keep them all safe.

But it was too late for that – that was prevention, not cure. Peggy had already been shot and Angie couldn’t make this better. 

She hadn’t made it better.

The path keeps going on, stretching out in front of her as the daylight fades further, and snow squeaks and crackles underneath her boots. 

Howard, Jarvis, and Daniel traipse along behind her, pale and tight-lipped in the cold wind. Jarvis has his hands wrapped delicately around an elegant Christmas wreath, and doesn’t even seem to notice that the holly keeps sticking in his fingers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The sirens draw closer and she dimly registers that Fortuna has wriggled free._

_In their right minds, Daniel and Howard could easily have gained the upper hand together (not that either of them were killers, they weren’t even close to violent men). But they weren’t in their right minds._

_They were furious. Which accounts for why they had probably spent more time ensuring the back of Fortuna’s head made contact with as many different surfaces as possible, than focusing on actually detaining him._

_When Fortuna makes a break for it, Daniel and Howard look as though they’re going to follow._

_Jarvis calls after them, sterner than Angie has ever heard him. He’d stayed with her, holding onto Angie’s hand even as she clings to Peggy. Both men freeze, turning back and looking anywhere but directly at Peggy._

_“You’re needed here, forget him,” Jarvis says quietly._

_A look of anger passes over Howard’s face. “_ Forget _him? After what he just did? I’m not going to forget him, I’m going to kill him.”_

_Jarvis goes to speak, but Dottie suddenly steps into the light. Angie had all but forgotten she was there._

_“You need to stay here. Just in case,” she says bluntly, though manages to hold off overtly stating that Peggy was probably going to die before they even made it out the alley. “Leave the killing part to me.”_

_She takes one last look at each of them individually before sauntering off._

_Angie doesn’t have any trouble believing that Fortuna would be dead within the hour._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They stop off briefly to deliver sweet peas to Angie’s grandmother. Her Nonna had always kept vases of sweet peas in her living room, and Angie did her best to lay some at her headstone whenever she had the time. 

Upon reflection, she didn’t come nearly often enough. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Peggy dies._

_She dies twice in the ambulance, under Angie’s watch. They have to pull over both times to try and resuscitate her and it is both everything and nothing like it is in the movies. They do all the things they’re supposed to do; charging the unit, pumping Peggy’s chest, and prising Angie away and well clear of any danger of electrocution. But it is infinitely more violent than Angie could ever have imagined. The way Peggy’s whole body twists and jumps under the current pouring into her_ _..._

_Peggy dies twice and she comes back both times, but then it happens again at the hospital, right before she’s sent into surgery and Angie is left in a corridor completely alone, powerless and just waiting for news._

 

 

“Are you okay?” Jarvis asks quietly in her ear, jogging slightly to catch up with her, 

“It’s Christmas Eve and I’m standing in a cemetery. Are _you_ okay?” 

His lips twitch, forming a brief, humourless half-smile. “Fair point. It’s never a fun event, but I can assure you, it doesn’t feel this gloomy for long.” 

Angie sure hopes he’s right.

“After all,” he points out, “it’s Christmas.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_‘Excruciating’ doesn’t even cover how much this all hurts. There are machines everywhere, whirring and beeping and doing something no-doubt critical and life-saving._

_She can’t breathe. Why the hell can’t she breathe? Her chest is so tight it’s like a concrete block is pressing down on her, and her head thrums so hard it’s possible she’d been whacked round the head with the concrete first, just for good measure._

_Angie clings to Peggy’s hand, tightly. Almost painfully so. Her eyes are red and impossibly sore, and she wouldn’t have realised a person could cry that much if she’d hadn’t been in the same position once before._

_Somewhere across the room, Daniel sits on a chair by the door, shifting between examining his fingernails and fiddling with a tear in his shirt._

_Jarvis still looks impossibly put together, even though it’s clear this doesn’t extend below the surface. He leans back against a wall, eyes raised to the ceiling, whilst Howard stands, back stiff and poker-straight, and stares out the window._

_She feels strangely exposed, wondering how long they’ve all been waiting around._

_“Oh my God. Peggy?!”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It’s natural to be worried about her. About all of them,” Jarvis continues gently. “Lord knows I felt the same a few years ago. But they _are_ okay. Or they will be.”

“Is it strange to grieve a person I never met?” Angie asks, finally giving voice to part of what’s been troubling her all day. This moment isn’t really something she feels she should see, the grief isn’t hers to carry and it feels insensitive that she is experiencing even a glimmer of sadness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Angie’s expression pinches when their gazes meet, and relief washes over her face._

_It is incredibly short-lived, however, because Angie’s eyes flash dangerously and suddenly she’s quite evidently furious. Her breath hitches in loudly, and her throat is likely so worn out that it is the closest to a sob Angie’s body can manage._

_She drops her head down to the bed, her forehead resting beside their clasped hands._

_“You idiot,” she hisses into the sheets. “You reckless, self-sacrificing, prize-winning_ idiot _.”_

_“Hey,” Peggy protests gently, her throat resisting against the very act of speaking. She knows Angie doesn’t mean it. Probably. Or maybe she does. But Peggy, even in her current state, knows how Angie must feel. She’s been on the other side of this situation before, except it ended a little differently._

_Peggy very slowly links their fingers together, one by one, before giving Angie’s hand a little squeeze._

_Eventually, Angie sits up again and Peggy guiltily takes in Angie’s pale face and tired, drawn expression. She squeezes Angie’s hand again, much more tightly this time._

I’m sorry, _the gesture says, better than Peggy can manage with words right now_. I’m sorry and I love you. 

_After a moment, Angie mimics the motion, tightening her grip on Peggy’s hand and leaning over to kiss Peggy’s forehead._

I love you too. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With Jarvis’ encouragement, Angie drifts to Peggy’s side, taking her hand in silence.

Peggy gives her a sad smile, but continues staring straight ahead, reading the words on the stone in front of them. Words she had, no doubt, already committed to memory.  

Steve Rogers died in April of 2011, and while they all made frequent individual visits, the team’s tradition was to bring him flowers together, on Christmas Eve. It had been a strange feeling when Peggy had asked Angie to come with them.

“Are you really sure you want me there?” she’d asked at the time. Months might have passed since their first night together, but much of that had been spent with Peggy recovering in a hospital bed. It hadn’t really been your traditional ‘getting to know your girlfriend’ period. Angie knew Peggy loved her, and she also knew that Peggy had loved Steve, and that was okay. It really was. But Angie still didn’t know exactly where _she_ stood.

“Of course I do,” Peggy said matter-of-factly, her head pillowed in Angie’s lap. “In fact,” Peggy’s voice had taken a heavier tone when she spoke again, and she deliberately looked away when her eyes became slightly glassy, “I’d really appreciate having you there this year.”

Angie wasn’t exactly gonna say no to that.

“I saved a few flowers from the bunches I got for my grandmother,” Angie says quietly. “You mind if I…?” she gestures in front of them.

“No, not at all. That would be lovely. Thank you.”

By the time Angie returns to Peggy’s side, the others have caught them up, and Angie takes a step or two away, allowing them to complete their ritual in peace. When they finish, the sun has set completely and the dark has gathered round them like an old, worn blanket.

Angie once again leads the way through the cemetery, lost in thought and trapped in a slightly gloomy mood. 

“I’m sorry, your Christmas Eve afternoons are probably usually a lot less sombre,” Peggy says, appearing at her side.

“They’re louder,” Angie concedes, “but that’s usually because my mom is arguing with my dad’s mom about how to prepare the turkey, and all my cousins are usually round at our house and Benny hates my brother, but my sister gets on really well with Benny’s wife, and all the others have these strange little feuds going on. So it gets heated pretty quickly.” 

“Sounds like quite the family Christmas,” Peggy remarks, linking their arms together. “I’d…quite like to experience it sometime,” she prompts, almost nervously. “Only if you’re…amenable, of course.”

“Seriously?” Angie lights up at the very idea. “Next year, maybe?”

“Next year sounds perfect.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They make their way back into the city, where things are still bustling. It doesn’t matter how many times she sees it, Angie’s heart always jumps at the sight of the Christmas decorations; the towering Christmas trees and the lights twinkling away overhead, as Christmas music plays from inside all the buildings.

They meet Jarvis’ wife at the ice rink, and Peggy takes Angie’s hand in hers as they wander round, just soaking up the atmosphere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’ve grieved Steve for years,” Peggy says suddenly, out of nowhere, as they walk around the park. “But that’s the thing about grief. It’s a process, and eventually, you have to work through that process.”

“And have you?” Angie asks, because it feels like the right question.

“Yes. I think – if I’m honest – I did so a while ago, I just felt bad admitting it to myself. Like I was betraying him.” 

Angie hums sympathetically, not really sure what to say. 

Peggy stops them at a free bench, flashing the others a ‘ _we’ll catch you up_ ’ look. 

“I don’t want to ever forget that part of my past,” she continues once they’re both settled, huddling close to try and keep warm.

It’s an understandable sentiment and Angie nods, wondering where this might be going and whether she has cause to feel slightly nervous. 

“Going back to him at this time of year, that’s what it is. You know that, don’t you?” Peggy had thought her adventures with Steve and Phillips, with Bucky and Dugan and Gabe, had been her halcyon days. It was hard to simply pretend they’d never happened. “It’s just remembering.” 

But Peggy had also wondered, once those times were over, if she’d ever be happy again.

“I guess I just wasn’t sure why you’d want me in a part of your life that’s so separated from all this,” Angie gestures between them. 

“That stuff, it’s a part of my past that I want to keep with me. But all of this, _you_ Angie, you’re a part of my present. Maybe I’m greedy but – ”

“I think we’ve established that given that you steal money for a living.”

“Charming. But my point _is,_ I want to have it all, I want to be grateful for it. I want to remember what I had, but that’s not me forgetting what I _have_. What – or rather who – I have in my life now.” She gives Angie a very pointed look, and, after a moment’s deciphering, Angie works out that this is Peggy’s way of telling her that she doesn’t think of Angie as second to Steve.

Angie thinks she understands it all a little better now.

“Love you too, English.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Wait here, just hang on.” Peggy darts off, leaving Angie hovering awkwardly while Daniel and Howard examine something in a shop window a few feet away, with Jarvis and Anna bringing up the back, completely happy in their own (incredibly sweet) little world.

Peggy buys them both a peppermint hot chocolate from one of the pop up street vendors, and when they drag themselves away from their little group for a moment, to join lips and hold each other close, the kisses taste sweet and sugary, and a little like mint liqueur. 

“Merry Christmas,” Angie says against Peggy’s lips, her laughter bubbling out between them. 

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

 _Maybe,_ Peggy thinks, _these ones are the halcyon days after all._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it!! I hope you enjoyed the fic, I've had a blast writing it! Thanks so much to all who've been reading, and in particular to those who've left me their thoughts as the story has panned out - it's honestly that kind of feedback that keeps me writing. If you have any final parting thoughts about this story, please let me know in the comments. 
> 
> Finally, I'll be back with another needless, trash au in September hopefully! In the meantime, feel free to follow me or shoot me a question/comment about this fic over on tumblr - you'll find me at natasharommanoff.


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